Alberti’s Window

Edward Chandor, "Portrait of Marjorie Merriweather Post," 1952

How I’ve missed blogging over this past month! These past several weeks have been some of the most hectic that I have experienced in a long time. I don’t even have a Halloween-themed post for today (you can look at my Rubens and Goya posts from previous Halloweens). Instead, I want to share some thoughts on something completely different: a female collector who was interested in frothy, powderpuff, sumptuous decorative arts that are often called “feminine.” (And hey, I know that a few of you may find this art to be just as frightening and off-putting as a ghoulish work by Goya!)

Marjorie Merriweather Post was an art collector in the mid-20th century. In 1955, Post purchased the estate Hillwood in Washington, DC to house her large art collection. Hillwood is one of the “collection museums” that I listed in an earlier post. The museum has a short introduction film on their website which is as fabulous as the tag line for the museum: Where Fabulous Lives.

Early in life, at the young age of twenty-seven, Marjorie Merriweather Post became the heiress of the Postum Cereal Company (later known as General Foods Corporation) in 1914. Many biographers have commented on how Post was thrust into a “man’s world” of industry and business at a very early age.¹ Several years after inheriting the family company, Post began to acquire furniture and decorative art with the help of art dealer Joseph Duveen. Interestingly, Post developed a keen interest in art during the same period in which she pushed for her business to merge with Birdeye Frozen Foods. Post’s art collection and museum can be interpreted as a self-portrait of Post, visually emphasizing her approachability, gender and femininity in order to draw a contrast with her perceived “masculine” pursuits in business.

Clock, 1896, silver gilt, bowenite, watercolor on ivory. Height 11.25", width 4"

The works that Marjorie Merriweather Post collected seem eclectic and even disparate at first glance: she was interested in French decorative arts from the 18^th and 19^th centuries, porcelain, jewelry, objects from imperial Russia, Farbergé, costumes, and even Native American art. However, when analyzing Post’s collection, one can see the majority the collection requires the viewer to interact with the objects in a similar way. Many of the items in Post’s collection are created on a small-scale, which require the viewer to examine the finely detailed objects at an extremely close distance. It has been commented that Post was considered to be intimidating and off-putting to many people, because she gave the impression of “being very grand.”² In one sense, Post’s art collection reflects and even extends this idea of grandeur, since the objects are very fine, luxurious, and extremely expensive. However, Post’s collection of small, dainty objects also presupposes an environment of familiarity, approachability, and even intimacy. In turn, one can assume that Post wanted to have these characteristics extended to her own persona. Post wanted her objects to be seen up close, and perhaps used these smaller objects to creatively assert that she, as an individual, was also approachable.

French Drawing Room at Hillwood Estate

The interior decoration and collective effect of the display contribute to the sense of femininity at Hillwood Estate. Such femininity is particularly manifest in the French Drawing Room, which is designed to “evoke the splendor of the French aristocratic life from the 18^th century.” Such objects, particularly those from the Rococo period of 18^th century France, historically have been considered “feminine” in nature. Art historian Melissa Hyde has stated, “During the second half of the eighteenth century, the rococo qualities exemplified by the work of [the artist] Boucher – grace, plenitude, emphasis on the seductions of color…came to be identified exclusively with the feminine.” Post includes a tapestry by Boucher in her drawing room, which compliments the flowery objects and lyrical decorative lines that suggest plenitude and grace. Such femininity can be seen in the rugs, chairs, and even the gilded molding of garlands on the wall. It is this particular room at Hillwood Estate that is decorated with many of the objects that Marjorie collected in the 1920s, the period in which she rallied to have her business merge with Birdseye Frozen Foods.

This post isn’t long enough to give a sense of the rich, luxurious quality or the expansiveness of Post’s collection- it’s quite amazing. There are many other ways that the collection and estate relate to gender, femininity, and domesticity too (I didn’t even get to the estate gardens!). Has anyone visited Hillwood Estate? What was your impression of the place?

I was surprised to learn recently that Monet’s famous painting Impression: Sunrise (dated 1872, shown right) was stolen from the Marmottan Museum on October 27, 1985. Seven armed men forced museums visitors and a guard to lie on the floor while they stole this painting and eight other works. Impression: Sunrise was recovered in December of 1990 and went back on display at the Marmottan in April 1991.

Although the actual theft doesn’t surprise me that much, I was taken back that I wasn’t aware of this aspect of the painting’s history. I feel like I know this painting pretty well – it is the work of art that is often seen as the “kickoff” point to the Impressionist movement. The title of this painting, Impression: Sunrise led hostile critic Louis Leroy to first use the term “Impressionists.”

As I’ve thought my surprised reaction, I’ve realized that much of my knowledge about Monet’s painting comes from art history textbooks. And, on the flip side, I’ve realized that most of my knowledge about art crime doesn’t come from standard art history textbooks. I usually learn about art crime from online sources (like the blog “Art Theft Central”) and popular history books like Lopez’s The Man Who Made Vermeers or Charney’s Stealing the Mystic Lamb. (And, speaking of Charney, I look forward to reading his new book on the thefts of the Mona Lisa).

So, why does art crime not get included in art history textbooks very much? Undoubtedly, such crime (theft or otherwise) becomes part of an art piece’s history. Here are some related questions that have been muddling about in my brain:

• Is there something about art crime that doesn’t appeal to academia at large? 
• Is art crime too closely related to popular history? (Perhaps this topic is really an issue of popular history and academia, an idea that will be explored in an upcoming conference by The Historical Society.)
• Is art crime too base of a topic for art historians? Will a work of art be demystified if it is connected with crime? Isn’t it okay if a work of art is demystified?
• Art crime is intrinsically linked to the art market. Does art history want to disassociate itself from the art market?
• Do scholars (and their book editors) feel like there isn’t room for a discussion of art crime in survey texts?
• Am I just looking at the wrong kinds of art history textbooks? Are there textbooks out there that incorporate a good discussion of crime along with other general aspects of art history?

I feel like there are a lot of art historians and art history students that are interested in art crime, but I don’t feel like there are enough academic publications to support my hunch. I definitely feel like there is a place for art crime in the classroom, though. I get very positive feedback from class lectures that include some information about theft, forgery and looting.

Maybe art crime is like crime itself – it needs to be learned “on the street” or by word of mouth! From what I can tell, it looks like Noah Charney’s program for a Master’s in Art Crime involves a lot of classroom discussion and lectures from experts on the topic, not a lot of textbook reading.

Thoughts, anyone?

I have plenty of things to do this afternoon, but I keep stopping to think about Van Gogh. Today I was discussing with my students about how Van Gogh is the quintessential example of the “artist-genius” construct (an artist who essentially is tortured by his art and creative mind). After all, Van Gogh cut off his own ear (unless Gauguin cut it off!), checked himself into a mental asylum (no doubt because of his uncontrollable passion for art, right???), and committed suicide.

Such aspects of Van Gogh’s life are popular to discuss in the world of art history (after all, we still are drawn to the “artist-genius” idea), but there has always been one other biographical detail which has puzzled me for a long time. In order for one to fully emphasize Van Gogh’s oppressed, tortured life, one of the following “facts” is oft repeated in the art world: “Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime” or “Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime.”

So, which is it? Did Van Gogh sell a painting or not? Or did he sell more than one painting? I’ve seen different answers in all types of locations (such as here and here), and I find it curious that there is so much ambiguity on this topic. Perhaps this confusion is partially a result of the internet, although I think that these these “facts” about Van Gogh have been independently propagated for much longer than the past two decades.

Luckily, the internet also has resources to allow for fact-checking. This afternoon I’ve been reading through an unabridged collection of Vincent Van Gogh’s letters online. These letters indicate that Van Gogh did sell (at least) one painting during this lifetime. The Red Vineyard (shown above, 1888) was sold to Anna Boch for 400 francs in 1890 (just a few months before Van Gogh’s death). The Red Vineyard had been on display at the 1890 “Les XX” exhibition in Brussels. Van Gogh was well aware of his sale, since he wrote his mother about the sale in a letter from 20 February 1890. In a later letter the following month (dated 29 March 1890), Vincent’s brother Theo asked if he could send Vincent the money “from your picture from Brussels.”

A website dedicated to Anna Boch has put forward some suggestions as to why Boch bought The Red Vineyard. One suggestion is that Boch wanted to show some support for Van Gogh, since his art received a mixed review from artists and critics at “Les XX.” Or, as an Impressionist painter, it is possible that Boch simply was interested in Van Gogh’s style. Whatever the reason, the sale was made.

Do you know any more information regarding Van Gogh’s sold painting(s)? Any thoughts as to why this ambiguity has not been completely resolved?

I’ve had Edvard Munch’s The Scream (right, 1893 version, also known as The Cry) keep popping into my mind lately. This week I’m getting ready for an extremely busy spring quarter, which will start next Monday. Although I know that the workload will be manageable (I’m too organized to let things become unmanageable!), this image keeps coming to mind when I look at my upcoming calendar. There’s so much work to be done!

I thought I’d share my two favorite things about this painting (well, I should say that there are four versions of this painting, but I especially like the 1893 version). My favorite art historical argument about The Scream was put forth in 1978 by Robert Rosenblum.¹ Rosenblum argued is that the screaming figure was inspired by a Peruvian Mummy, which Munch would have seen on view at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris. This mummy, called the “momie trépanée,” is now located in the Musee de l’Homme in Paris (see an additional image of the mummy here). It is thought that Gauguin also saw this mummy on display; the old woman in his painting Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? (1897) bears a strong resemblance to the mummy’s features and fetal position.

I also love that The Scream has quite a history when it comes to art crime. Versions of The Scream have been stolen from the National Gallery in Norway (in 1994) and the Munch Museum (in 2004 – Wikipedia even has a photo of the thieves with their loot!). I think the 1994 story is especially interesting; a few years ago I read The Rescue Artist by Edward Dolnick, which discusses the theft and recovery in detail. If you’re interested in art crime, I’d recommend this book. Essentially, two thieves simply propped a ladder against the window of the museum, shattered the glass, and stole the painting around 6:30 in the morning. The crime occurred on quite a historic day, 12 February 1994, the opening day for the Olympic Games held in Lillehammer. The painting was recovered in May of that same year.

On a side note, I wanted to point out that The Scream was originally titled Despair. (This original title doesn’t surprise me, since it seems like Munch experienced a lot of despair and turmoil in his personal life.) I have to say, though, that I don’t feel despair when I think about the upcoming spring quarter. Actually, I’m quite excited about it, even though I know it will be very busy.

1 Robert Rosenblum, “Symbols and Images of Edvard Munch,” (National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1978).

Over the past few weeks, my students and I have been discussing some of the ironies regarding the avant-garde tradition. One of the biggest ironies is that although avant-garde artists are radical and break away from tradition, the avant-garde is also reliant upon tradition. Without the conservative Academy, the avant-garde would have nothing to react against. Hence, avant-garde art will never be able to break completely free from Western artistic tradition, because it would become meaningless without that context.

Today I’ve been thinking about this irony in relation to Picasso. During the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, a stray shell broke the defenses of the Prado Museum. Picasso was very concerned about the masterpieces in the museum, particularly the work of artists like Goya. But the artist had added motivation to be concerned: this same year Picasso accepted the honorific title of Director of the Museum, which was bestowed on him by the Republican government. Picasso’s acceptance of this title is an indication of his sympathies with the Republican government (in case you think his attack on General Francisco Franco via his etching The Dream and the Lie of Franco Part 1 (1937) isn’t enough evidence of his political leanings! Ha!).

As director of the Prado, Picasso managed the removal of several masterpieces from Madrid to Valencia. Two years later, Picasso contributed part of his personal funds to have these paintings removed once again to safekeeping in Geneva. For the most part, the paintings were kept safe, although Goya’s Second of May 1808 (1814, shown right) and Third of May 1808 (1814) were both severely damaged by a falling balcony. The Prado reports that some damage was intentionally kept on the left corner of Second of May as a reminder of the Civil War.

Of course, on one hand, it isn’t surprising that Picasso was concerned about the masterpieces in the Prado collection. After all, as an artist, Picasso undoubtedly appreciated the work of other artists. But could there be another reason why Picasso was invested in preserving this art? Think about it: what would Picasso be if artistic masterpieces did not exist? The radicalism in his own art wouldn’t make sense. His commentaries on artistic tradition (and his rejection of those traditions) would have no meaning. Picasso needs masterpieces and tradition in order to stylistically reject them. In this light, one could say that Picasso was helping his own career when he helped to save the work of earlier masters. The continued existence of masterpieces would help ensure that Picasso’s art held meaning and relevance. I wonder if Picasso realized this ironic fact.