Alberti’s Window

The world of early 20th century painting may have just sustained a serious, permanent blow. If you follow the happenings in the art world, you may have already read that the Museum of Modern Art in Paris was robbed last night. Five paintings were stolen, totaling around $123 million. The especially sad thing about this news? Only 12-15% of stolen paintings ever resurface. Here are images of the five stolen works:

I’ve noticed that when I read novels that describe or include art, I often end up imagining a work of art with which I’m already familiar (even if the description in the novel doesn’t match up perfectly). That being said, I couldn’t help but think of Francis Bacon’s Study after the Velasquez Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953) the whole time I read Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Gray. It was a little frustrating, especially since my imagination had to constantly morph and tweak the painting to actually fit Wilde’s descriptions. Plus, hey, it’s not that pleasant to continually think about Bacon’s painting for the three hours that it took me to read the book.

For those of you who are not familiar with the Wilde novel, the plot revolves around a beautiful man who essentially sells his soul in order to remain beautiful and youthful. Instead of growing old or ugly, Dorian Gray owns a portrait of himself that shows the effects of age and sin in his life. His own visage constantly remains beautiful, despite the passage of time and horrible things Dorian does in his life. The portrait is described as pretty horrifying, since it gives evidence of Dorian’s black soul.

I recently discovered that a 20th century artist created a painting that was inspired by the The Portrait of Dorian Gray. In fact, Ivan Le Lorraine Albright was commissioned to create a portrait of Dorian Gray for Albert Lewin’s 1945 film adaptation of the novel.

There is a detail of Dorian’s murderous, blood-stained hand here. It’s a pretty creepy painting, don’t you think? Now I feel kind of glad that I visualized something as tame as a Francis Bacon.

Last week I had a student remark that the two circles in Lorna Simpson’s Untitled (2 Necklines) (1989, shown left) look like a pair of eyes. I’ve been thinking a lot about this comment lately, particularly because I think it ties into Laura Mulvey’s theories regarding the male gaze and fragmentation. Basically, the two circles eyes make the viewer especially conscious that he (the gendered pronoun is intentional) is fragmenting, cropping, and fetishizing the woman with his gaze.

It’s interesting to note that these eyes detract attention from the fact that Simpson (and Simpson’s camera) have actually done the fragmentation of the image. And there are other interesting parallels which can be drawn between human eyes and cameras: eyes have a limited amount of scope within their visual field and crop things naturally, just as a camera has to crop images because of the limitations of the camera lens.

I like that Simpson includes the word “eye” in one of the text boxes between the circles. I realize that this group of words also can also be associated with discrimination, slavery, and lynching – not just the objectification of women. But it’s interesting to read the word “eye” and between two circular eyes.

And if you stare at this work of art too long (as I have been doing this morning), the column of words become the outline for a nose, the dark skin looks like pupils, and the white clothing looks like the whites of eyes. Could we say, then, that this piece is an actual visualization of the male viewer? Ha ha! Okay, probably not, but it is kind of interesting to see a little “face” emerge in Simpson’s work.

I remember being surprised to learn that the Ghent Altarpiece (1432) that exists today is not entirely a product of the fifteenth century.¹ One of the panels in the altarpiece (“The Just Judges“) was stolen in the 1930s, and was repainted by the copyist Jef Vanderveken in 1945 (see left).

I think it’s telling that none of my art history books mention anything about Vanderveken or this copied panel. And when I traveled to Ghent to see this altarpiece in 2003, I don’t remember seeing any information about any other artist than van Eyck. I think there’s a reason for this “cover-up”: the altarpiece doesn’t appear to be a product of pristine history and genius with the knowledge that not everything is “authentic” (i.e. by van Eyck’s hand). And I would argue that by extension, to undermine the genius of van Eyck’s work would also undermine the genius and authoritative voice of the art historical discipline.

This connection between authenticity and the authoritative voice is interesting. One of the most prominent places to encounter an authoritative (and institutional) voice is within the museum setting. Pieces of art are displayed within the museum, and an unspoken authoritative voice tells museum visitors, “This is important and authentic by the mere fact that it’s on display.” And museum visitors do not question that implied statement (at least, they’re not encouraged to do so!).

But what happens when a work of art in a museum collection is determined to not be authentic? This change in status (i.e. artistic genius) reflects poorly on the museum because it loses a measure of authority. (Museums don’t want to admit that they make mistakes, too!)

I’m particularly reminded of the forger Han van Meegeren, who duped the art world into thinking it had discovered several paintings by Vermeer (among a few other artists). Van Meegeren’s forgeries are now scattered throughout the world in many prominent collections, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery (Washington, DC). However, from what I can tell, these paintings are not on permanent display at most of these museums. Instead, the forgeries are shuttled down to the depths of storage, to hide the blemish of mistake and allow the museum to still “speak” authoritatively.

Furthermore, whenever Van Meegeren paintings are on display for temporary exhibition, it appears that they are almost always labeled with “Imitator of Vermeer” or “After Johannes Vermeer.” Even though Van Meegeren was exposed and we know who made the forgeries, museums don’t give him any credit for his work! It’s as if the museum world still wants to try and tap into the genius of Vermeer by association, even though we know that the paintings are fakes. Bah!

Do you know of any other instances where a question of authenticity has undermined the authority of a museum/art appraiser/work of art/art history textbook?

I’m preparing a lecture on the Impressionists, and I’ve been completely distracted by Monet’s Déjeuner sur L’Herbe (“Luncheon on the Grass”). Yes – that’s not a typo. I meant to write “Monet,” not “Manet.”

Maybe you’re saying “What?” just like I did fifteen minutes ago. Don’t get too bewildered: Manet DID a very seminal painting that is called Le Déjeuner sur L’Herbe (1863). And Manet’s painting is infinitely more well-known than Monet’s early work with the same title. But allow me to bring Monet’s painting out of obscurity:

Monet, Le Déjeuner Sur L’Herbe, 1865-66

It’s interesting to see a painting by Monet that includes human figures. (You can see a figure study for this painting here.) I’m so used to seeing Monet paintings with haystacks and Rouen Cathedrals and water lilies and train stations – it’s so nice to see something different. You also might have noticed that this painting was made just about two years after Manet completed his painting with the same title. A coincidence? Definitely not. There’s no question that Monet was influenced by Manet.

Other painters were also influenced by Manet’s 1863 painting. Cezanne did his own picnicking painting with the same title, and Picasso did several versions that were directly inspired by Manet. In fact, the Musee d’Orsay did an exhibition (which ended in February 2009) that revolved around Picasso’s variations of Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur L’Herbe. Here’s one Picasso example:

Picasso, Le Déjeuner sur L’Herbe after Manet, 27 February 1960

So, what do you think? Did you know that Monet painted a Déjeuner sur L’Herbe? (I really hope that I’m not the only one who was unaware of that fact.) Which version of the subject matter do you like the best?