Alberti’s Window

Today a perceptive student asked if art historians had ever discussed a connection between the paintings by Gustave Caillebotte (a 19th century Impressionist) and Edward Hopper (a 20th century artist). I thought this was a really fascinating question. This week, my students and I have been discussing how Caillebotte’s work can be interpreted within the themes of isolation and loneliness. We’ve discussed ideas of how the modernization and industrialization of Paris could have isolated people in the 19th century, and particularly analyzed Caillebotte’s painting Pont de l’Europe (1876, see right). My students and I looked at Caillebotte’s biography, using some of the research done by my friend and colleague Breanne Gilroy. One thing Gilroy mentions is that Caillebotte experienced a sense of isolation during his lifetime, particularly since the artist’s father, brother, and mother all died within a period of four years.¹

Anyhow, I thought that my student’s question regarding Edward Hopper was especially interesting in this context, since Hopper’s paintings also can tie into themes of isolation and loneliness. One can especially get a sense of isolation in Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks (1942) and Gas Station (1940). Caillebotte and Hopper are also similar in other ways as well: they both have an interest in depicting contemporary subject matter, both use comparatively muted color palates, and both favor compositions with large, flat areas of color.

Although I didn’t find too many people who discuss a similarity between the two artists, I did come across a few things. First of all, Time blogger Richard Lacayo noted that he saw a similarity between the compositions of Caillebotte’s Paris Street, Rainy Day (1877) and Hopper’s New York Movie (1939). Lacayo also noted a essay by Judith A. Barter in the catalog Edward Hopper.

Although I haven’t seen a copy of Barter’s essay, this evening I was able to listen to a podcast in which Barter discusses more of Hopper’s life. Barter mentions that Hopper went to France three times between the years 1906-1910. While there, Hopper viewed and studied the art of many Impressionist painters, and I think it’s very likely that Hopper was familiar with the work of Caillebotte. Although Baxter doesn’t cite Caillebotte as a direct influence, she does mention a similarity between Caillebotte’s Paris Street, Rainy Day and Hopper’s Nighthawks (side note: it isn’t surprising that she chose these two paintings for comparison, since they are both part of the Art Institute of Chicago collection – the museum where Baxter works as a curator!). Here is a transcript from the podcast:

1 Breanne Gilroy, “Mourning and Melancholy in the Work of Gustave Caillebotte,” (Unpublished), 2006. Gilroy mentions how Caillebotte’s father died in 1874, his brother René died in 1876, and his mother died in 1878. Gilroy also cites an article by Kirk Vardenoe, “Gustave Caillebotte in Context” in Arts Magazine 9 (May 1976): 94-99.

2 Judith A. Baxter, “Transcending Reality: Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks,” public lecture delivered 28 February 2010. Podcast of lecture is available here.

Over the past few days I’ve been reading about the history of Christmas in America. (For a brief introduction on the subject, I suggest you read the preface of William B. Wait’s book, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving). It has been most surprising for me to discover that Christmas wasn’t widely celebrated until about the mid-19th century. I didn’t realize that the celebration of Christmas was such a recent phenomenon in American history. Of course, I already guessed that the Puritans didn’t celebrate Christmas, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that the holiday was outlawed between 1659 and 1681. But it appears that Americans still resisted Christmas in the 18th century, partially because it was a way for rebellious American patriots to set themselves apart from an English/European tradition.

In the 19th century, Christmas began to be celebrated more regularly. I’ve been particularly interested in different historical arguments regarding how Americans perceived Christmas during the Civil War (1861-1865). For example, Penne L. Restad argues that around the time of the Civil War, Americans looked toward the Christmas holiday as an “idealized domestic haven that was neither northern nor southern in its origins or biases.”¹

On the other hand, it has also been argued that Americans also were divided on the subject of Christmas. Southerners tended to celebrate the Christmas as part of the social season, whereas Northerners saw more sin in the celebration of the holiday.² Although these two arguments by historians seem a little contradictory, I think that they can coexist. Perhaps the idea of Christmas both unified Americans (with its promise of peace and tranquility) and also divided Americans (in the way that the holiday should be observed).

The division of Civil War era Americans regarding Christmas is especially interesting to me when considering Thomas Nast’s drawings for Harper’s Magazine. Nast made several images of Santa Claus during the 1860s, including a picture of Santa delivering presents to Union soldiers (see image above, which is from the January 3, 1863 cover of Harper’s Magazine).  Some argue that this drawing functioned as a type of psychological warfare against the Confederate Army, since Santa Claus was showing favor to Union soldiers (when Southerners were the ones who tended to celebrate the Christmas holiday).

I think that the drawing is particularly interesting. Santa is dressed in a suit with stripes and stars, which looks very similar to the Union flag. He is handing out gifts which would have been important to soldiers, such as a pair of socks. Interestingly, Santa is holding out a puppet that looks very much like Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate South. Santa is pulling on the puppet string, which makes it look like Santa is lynching Jefferson Davis! (Who knew that Santa could be so violent?) I think that the inclusion of lynching is an especially interesting comment on anti-slavery, don’t you think?

It’s interesting to think about how Christmas is a cultural construct, especially within a relatively young country like America. If you live outside the United States, what is the history of Christmas in your country? Are you aware of early representations of Christmas in your respective country or area? Or, if you are American, what representations of Christmas do you like?

1 Penne L. Restad, Christmas in America: A History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 98. Citation is available online here.

2 Although not within the Civil War context, William B. Wait also discusses how the Northerners were suspicious of the Christmas revelry, whereas the Southerners embraced the celebration. See William B. Wait, The Modern Christmas in America: A Cultural History of Gift Giving (New York: New York University Press, 1994), xv-xvi. Citation is available online here.

I’ve been thinking about art history blogging lately, partially because I got to read so many art history posts for this month’s issue of the Art History Carnival. Really, though, I’ve been thinking about blogging ever since reading Alexandra Korey’s interview on Three Pipe Problem. Alex discusses how blogging can be seen as a waste of time and a “not serious” endeavor in the eyes of other academics. I can see how one could have this perspective, especially for those who are in tenure-track positions who feel the pressure to “publish [in print] or perish.” (Although one begs the question: isn’t print perishing?)

As I’ve been mulling over these thoughts, I’ve begun to see some parallels between art history bloggers and the French avant-garde artists of the 19th century. Art history bloggers have decided to showcase their work in a forum different from the traditional publishing method in academia (i.e. print journals or academic textbooks). Really, one could argue that we have set up our own “Salon des Indépendents” online, similar to what 19th century artists did to break away from the artistic salon established by the Academy.

We could even make further parallels between blogging and 19th century art (particularly Impressionism). Since (most) blog posts are very short and succinct in nature, they differ from the fleshed-out topics that are examined in academic print. The physical size of blogging posts can be compared with the canvases that some Impressionists used. For example, Monet was interested in non-standard canvas shapes (such as the square), which were rarely used outside of avant-garde circles.¹

The informal writing style of blogs can parallel the choppy, short brushstrokes of Impressionist painters like Monet (see Impression: Sunrise, 1872 above). Maybe that’s why our work seems less appealing to those in academia: blogs seem unfinished and unrefined (perhaps just a mere impression of scholarship?). I also think that an informal writing style could compare with the color schemes found in some Impressionist paintings: lighter, pastel colors could be interpreted as less formal (or weighty) than rich, saturated colors.

We can even draw parallels between plein air painting and blogging in a virtual world. In both instances, the artist/writer needs to be immersed in a specific type of environment.

So, what am I saying? Am I predicting that blogging is going to rise up as an avant-garde movement to overthrow the academic publishing convention? Hardly. I don’t feel like I can be that prophetic. But it is interesting to think about how art history often values the “underdog” movements in retrospect. Even though the Indépendents/Impressionists were mocked at the time, they ended up being an extremely influential and important art movement over the course of history. And I think it’s safe to say that we, as bloggers, are also involved in a really great thing.

1 Anthea Callen, The Art of Impressionism: Painting Technique & The Making of Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 21. Available online here.

Have you ever picked up a book and pleasantly discovered that the reading was more interesting than you anticipated? I recently read The Unboxing of Henry Brown by Jeffrey Ruggles, and I ended up feeling that way. I’m very interested in issues of slavery/antislavery in the United States (and elsewhere), and for a long time I’ve wanted to learn more about Henry “Box” Brown. I didn’t anticipate reading about art history when I picked up this book, though, but was excited to find a lot of discussion about the moving panorama, a popular form of art (and entertainment) in the mid-19th century.

Before reading this book, the only thing I knew about Brown was his escape from slavery: he climbed into a box and shipped himself from Virginia (a “slave” state) to Philadelphia (a “free” state). Various images of Brown’s “resurrection” from his box (the one above is from Boston, 1850 (unsigned)) were used by abolitionists. One art historian commented that these images of the unboxing were “perhaps the most potent single metaphor [that abolitionists used] for the displacement of the traditional image of the ‘runaway’ slave in popular imagination.”¹

The thing that surprised me most about this book, though, was to learn how Brown decided to earn a living after escaping from slavery. Brown commissioned a moving panorama to be painted, which he titled Mirror of Slavery.²  Moving panoramas consisted of huge canvases (sewn together) which were displayed on a type of vertical spool. The paintings could then be scrolled in front of an audience, revealing a sequence of scenes. In some ways, the moving panorama was the predecessor to the slide show.  (If you like, you can get a sense of the moving panorama idea by watching the beginning of this scene from the film “Letter from an Unknown Woman,” 1948).  During the middle of the 19th century, the moving panorama was an extremely popular form of entertainment. It’s sad that few moving panoramas exist today. Those that do exist are never shown in their original format, either, largely due to conservation issues.

A good portion of Ruggles’ book discusses the history of the moving panorama (as a type of art) and the scenes which appeared on Mirror of Slavery. Although Mirror of Slavery doesn’t exist today, it was interesting to learn about the subject matter for the scenes. We also have a basic idea of the composition for some of the Mirror of Slavery scenes too, since it’s obvious that Mirror of Slavery found inspiration in the illustrations for the Charles Green’s book The Nubian Slave. Ruggles book is replete with lots of images that may have resembled the scenes from Mirror of Slavery.

Anyhow, for several years Brown traveled around the United States and England, giving presentations and lectures while exhibiting his moving panorama. I have to admit – while I was very interested to learn about Brown’s life, I found it even more fascinating to learn more about the moving panorama. Although I was familiar with the idea of the moving panorama before, I didn’t realize that such an artistic device helped to aid the antislavery movement.³

1 Marcus Wood, Blind Memory: Visual Representations of Slavery in England and America, 1780-1865 (Manchester, England: 2000), 103. (See text online here.)

2 Henry “Box” Brown’s moving panorama was painted by three painters from Boston, with the primary artist probably being Josiah Wollcott. The other artists are described in an 1850 newspaper from Liverpool as “Rouse and Johnson.” Ruggles suggests that these artists might have been Samuel Worcester Rowse and David Claypoole Johnston. See Ruggles, p. 75.

3 Henry “Box” Brown was not the only person to use the moving panorama to discuss slavery. Ruggles mentions a couple of others who also produced moving panoramas, including the black abolitionist William Wells Brown. See Ruggles, p. 72.

My longstanding readers may remember a short post that I did last year, expressing reservations that the painting nicknamed “La Bella Principessa” (shown left) was a work by Leonardo da Vinci. (You may recall that a fingerprinting method was used to attribute this painting to Leonardo.)  I question this attribution for a couple of reasons, including the fact that this painting was done on vellum, a medium which Leonardo never used. I’m not the only art historian or curator with reservations about this attribution, and now people are coming forward to suggest who the actual artist might be.

I just read this news release about a new attribution: Fred R. Kline (an independent scholar) has come forward to suggest that the actual artist is Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, a lesser-known 19th century artist who belonged to the Nazarene Brotherhood in Germany. Kline’s argument is supported by a sketch called “Half-Nude Female” (shown below) which Klein discovered in the State Art Museum in Mannheim, Germany. Not only was this sketch created on vellum (just like “La Bella Principessa”), the model and braided hair are quite similar. Kline thinks that “La Bella Principessa” could have been a gift from Von Carolsfeld to this model.

This is a really interesting idea, and I congratulate Klein on his sleuthing. If this painting is by Von Carolsfeld, “La Bella Principessa” would be one of the best paintings that he ever created. I’m not familiar with all of Von Carolsfeld’s work, but I haven’t been terribly impressed with the paintings that I have seen.¹ I do really like Von Carolsfeld’s sketches, though (for example, his sketches Seated Boy Playing a Pipe (1818) and Portrait of Victor Emil Jansen (n.d.) are very good). In my opinion, Von Carolsfeld was a much better draftsman than a painter, and I kind-of doubt he could create as fine of a painting as “La Bella Principessa.”  Even though Von Carolsfeld’s Klara Bianka von Quandt (1820) is an alright painting (despite the fact that the lute looks like it’s been cut-and-pasted into the model’s hands – sorry, I couldn’t help myself), it lacks the sfumato and modeling that gives the Principessa’s image a sense of depth and richness.

So, there you have it. We may have found a possible artist for “La Bella Principessa,” but (yet again!) I’m still not quite sure. I wonder, though, if “La Bella Principessa” might have been painted by another person associated with Nazarene Brotherhood. Perhaps someone who used the same model as Von Carolsfeld’s “Half-Nude Female” sketch, but also had more talent as a painter?  Does anyone know any information about Ludwig Schnorr von Carolsfeld (Julius’ older brother)? I know that he was a painter too, but so far I can only find information about Julius’ son, who was given the same name.

1 Let me explain some of my reasoning. I think a lot of Von Carolsfeld’s painted figures seem a little too static. Consider The Family of John the Baptist Visiting Christ (1817), where the Christ child is awkwardly spread out like a lifeless doll. Or look at The Annunciation (1818): it seems strange that the Gabriel’s drapery is flowing behind him (suggesting movement), when the angel appears absolutely frozen in its stance. I realize that “La Bella Principessa” doesn’t allow for much comparative analysis in terms pose (since it is a bust portrait), but I still think that the face and upper figure of the “Principessa” seem much more relaxed and natural than any of the Von Carolsfeld paintings which I have seen.