Alberti’s Window

George Frideric Handel (shown on right in a portrait (1726-28) attributed to Balthasar Denner) is one of my favorite Baroque composers. And it’s not only his music that I like: the more I learn about things related to Handel (such as his passion for food (so much that he withheld fine food from guests in his home), or even seemingly unrelated things, like the fact that he and Jimi Hendrix could have been next-door neighbors), the more I am intrigued by him.

Hence, I became helplessly distracted this afternoon when JSTOR’s unreliable search engine brought up Thomas McGeary’s article “Handel as Art Collector: Art, Connoisseurship and Taste in Hanoverian Britain” (when I had typed in keywords to search for medieval illustrations of French queens).

It was interesting to learn that Handel was a prolific art collector.  He was recorded to have “taken great pleasure in contemplating the works of art” in his collection.¹ I really enjoyed learning about the nature of his collection, too. Despite the fact that Victorians praised Handel for his biblical oratorios, the composer had few biblical works of visual art.² Instead, Handel was drawn to more landscapes, Dutch/Flemish paintings, French classical painters (e.g. Poussin), and a handful of Italian artists. Handel didn’t care too much for portraits of individuals (which is unusual, since portraiture was so popular in England at the time), and it appears that he even gave away all portraits of himself. He did, however, have two pictures of heads by Balthasar Denner, one of which may have resembled Denner’s Portrait of an Old Woman (before 1721, shown above left).

It also is apparent that Handel bought works of art simply because he liked them; he doesn’t give one the impression of a hard-nosed collector who is interested in owning works by all major artists and schools, nor was he interested in collecting works by the Old Masters. He also didn’t follow the contemporary craze to purchase works by William Hogarth, even though Handel might have known Hogarth personally. Instead, Handel did “his own thing” when it came to art collecting, which (I think) indicates an aspect of his personality that translates into his musical compositions: instead of closely following musical trends, Handel created his own musical style (which I think is instantly recognizable). He wrote music that appealed to him, just as he collected art which he found appealing.

1  Thomas McGeary, “Handel as Art Collector: Art, Connoisseurship and Taste in Hanoverian Britain,” Early Music 34, no. 7 (2009): 533. 

2 McGeary lists the few biblical works that Handel owned: Hagar and the angel, the finding of Moses, prints of rest on the flight into Egypt, a Guido Reni altar-piece and possible a pair of biblical prints.  McGeary suggests that the lack of biblical scenes could be due to a Protestant fear of idolatry. It is interesting to see McGeary’s comparisons of Handel’s collection with other collections, which have large numbers of biblical scenes (approximately 27-33% of the collections mentioned). See Ibid., 533-576.

When I was in elementary school, I had to give a report on Dolley Madison. I was fascinated with Dolley’s life, and poured over a children’s version of her biography. I remember being particularly interested in how the first lady had to flee from the White House during the War of 1812.

One thing that I didn’t learn from my project (or at least, I don’t remember learning), was that before Dolley Madison’s flight from the White House, she ensured that a portrait of George Washington would be kept safe from the British soldiers. This portrait by Gilbert Stuart (1796, shown right), is often called the “Lansdowne portrait,” since at one point it was given as a gift of appreciation to William Petty, the Marquess of Lansdowne (Great Britain). The portrait depicts a significant point in American history, showing Washington renouncing a third term as president.

Dolley Madison called this portrait “iconic” and delayed her flight from the White House until she was able to arrange for the painting’s safekeeping. She wrote to her sister, “I insist on waiting until the large picture of Gen. Washington is secured.” This month’s edition of Smithsonian magazine has a very interesting article that gives more details about Dolley Madison’s flight and the portrait.

Ever since my elementary school report, I’ve always admired Dolley Madison. But now knowing the fundamental role she played in preserving an important work of art, I like her even more.

I’m still thinking about Watteau this week. On the left is a portrait of Watteau by Rosalba Carriera (1721).

In my earliest art history classes, I remember learning that Watteau was associated with the “fête galante” genre from the Rococo period. The “fête galante” includes depictions of feasts or celebrations of gallantry, and it usually showed idle aristocrats in outdoor settings.

Today, Watteau is hailed as the master of the “fête galante.” However, it appears that the term intially was used in a more demeaning sense. I just learned today that “fête galante” was first applied to Watteau’s art by the Academy, so that Watteau would be separated “from the scholarly and morally serious narratives of the history genre.”¹ The Academy renamed Watteau’s painting Pilgrimage to the Island of Cythera (shown above, 1717) to Un Feste Galante.² I guess that Watteau’s title and allusion to semi-mythic subject matter was troubling for the Academy; they didn’t want this painting to be associated with the history/mythological paintings that were considered the “highest” form of art at the time. Therefore, “by admitting Watteau [to the exhibition], but not as a history painter, the Academy both welcomed and snubbed him.”³

It’s interesting to see that several demeaning or derogatory terms have been associated with art initially, and then the term ends up sticking to the art/artist in a positive way. The Fauvists received their name after an art critic compared the group’s paintings to “fauves” or wild beasts. Likewise, the term “impressionists” was coined by the art critic Louis Leroy as a demeaning way to mock the art of Claude Monet (and others that exhibited in the Salon des Refuses in 1874).

Can you think of any other instances when a demeaning term has become a badge of honor for an artist or movement?

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 229.

2 Ibid.

Halloween is here and I can’t help but think of all the creepy, spooky art that exists. I think some of the creepiest art belongs to Goya’s “Black Paintings” series (1820-1823). These fourteen paintings were created during the period that Goya was recuperating from yellow fever. Some have interpreted these works as Goya’s response to constitutional freedom, but I think (along with many other art historians) there must have been a lot more personal, psychological motivations that inspired Goya’s work.¹

Goya created the “Black Paintings” on the walls of his home, Quinta del Sordo (you can see a virtual tour here). Later, the paintings were transferred to canvas in the 1870s. The most famous painting in this series is Saturn Devouring His Children (shown above to the right). This painting refers to the classical story of Saturn, the king of the gods, who feared an prophecy which said that one of his children would overthrow him. In order to stop this from happening, Saturn ate each child upon birth (although you will notice that Saturn is eating an adult body in this painting). (You can read more of the mythological story here). With grim sarcasm, Goya painted Saturn Eating His Children on his dining room wall. Doesn’t it whet your appetite?

Another creepy work from the “Black Paintings” series is Witches Sabbath (The Great He-Goat) (shown left). This painting shows a group of witches who have convened with the devil, who has assumed the form of a goat. Goya was obviously drawn to this subject matter, since he created a more light-hearted version of this subject earlier in 1789 (see here). I think the “Black Paintings” version is infinitely more spooky and ominous. I identify most with the figure of the little girl on the right, who seems resistant and apart from the frightening crowd.

The earlier 1789 version of Witches Sabbath was one of six paintings of witches and devils. Goya created these six paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. If the “Black Paintings” don’t convince you that Goya was interested in creepy subject matter, maybe two of these Osuna paintings will:

The Bewitched Man, c. 1798
(More information here)

Witches in the Air, 1797-98
I think this painting is freaky. (More information here)

Still not convinced that Goya liked creepy art? Then check out some of the lithographs from his Los Caprichos series, which he created around the same time as the paintings for the Duke and Duchess of Osuna. You can see a few here. Another one in the series, “There is a lot to Suck” (Capricho 45), depicts a greedy witch with her mouth wide open. The witches are catching babies in a basket, in order to drink their blood. This superstition might be connected to abortion, since women who assisted with abortion were labeled as witches.²

Are you spooked? Which work by Goya do you think is the creepiest?

Happy Halloween!

1 Priscilla E. Muller, “Goya, Francisco de“, in Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, http://www.oxfordartonline.com.erl.lib.byu.edu/subscriber/article/grove/art/T033882, accessed 30 October 2009.

2 Rose-Marie Hagen and Rainer Hagen, Francisco Goya: 1746-1828 (London: Taschen, 2003), 36. Available online here.