Alberti’s Window

My friend heidenkind recently brought my attention to this article, which asserts that The Education of the Virgin (17th century, shown right), a painting discovered in the basement of Yale Art Gallery, is not by Velasquez (as was thought earlier this year). I have to admit, I was pretty pleased that the painting was unattributed to Velasquez. Is that strange? I would assume that most people are thrilled when they learn that a possible new work by Velasquez, da Vinci, Michelangelo, etc., has been discovered. And I rarely (if ever) feel thrilled about such news – particularly if the work has immediately been attributed to a great master. Instead, I get pleased when the painting is demoted from any “great master” status.

Lately I’ve been trying to figure out why I feel this way. Some of you may remember me earlier post along these lines, in which I discussed my skepticism on the plethora of new discoveries. I haven’t quite pinpointed all of the reasons for my skepticism/hesitation regarding new discoveries, but I thought that writing this post might help me to organize my thoughts. I think that I mostly resist hasty attributions to great masters because I know a little bit about the politics behind art attribution – it’s tempting for a connoisseur to attribute a painting to a great master, since such an attribution would help further the publicity and career of that connoisseur. I’m particularly reminded of Abraham Bredius, the connoisseur who “discovered” the “Vermeer” paintings by the forger Han Van Meegeren. Bredius is lucky that he passed away soon after Van Meegeren’s confession in 1945.

Anyhow, there are lots of other motivations for a work of art to be attributed to a great master, and most of them are financial. The owning museum, institution, or gallery will push for such an attribution, since it will be monetarily beneficial. And hey, the connoisseur could also get a nice fat check for such an attribution.

But is this political/financial reason why I don’t get excited about discoveries? I also wonder if my might have something to do with the historian side of me. If there are unknown works by great masters, then this forces me (as a historian) to reshape the artist in my mind as a historical figure. And I think I resist such reshaping a little bit. Does that make sense? In some ways, I feel like I know great artists quite well, and having a new work of art means that there is some aspect to their lives and work that was hidden from me. (I guess it’s kind of like the artist was doing something “behind my back.”) I know, it’s a little silly. Yet, at the same time, I love learning new things about artists. So maybe I experience some kind of inward struggle (i.e. the desire to learn vs. feeling deceived) when a new work of art is discovered, and that’s why I shy away from such discoveries. I don’t know.

Ironically, though, I rarely feel skeptical when archaeologists announce that a new work of prehistoric/ancient art was discovered or excavated. I always think, “Hey, awesome!” and move on with my life. So my skepticism (and emotional attachment?) must be somehow related to the idea that these works of art are attached to early modern “masters” (i.e. individuals). There isn’t enough information about specific prehistoric/ancient artists (or even some cultures!) for me to get as defensive and protective as a historian. Instead, I almost always get excited about ancient discoveries.

So, that’s what I came up with this evening: political/financial reasons and my silly protectiveness as a historian prevent me from embracing new “masterpieces.” What about you? Am I the only person who is continuously skeptical? Do most people get excited about attributions and “masterpiece” discoveries? Do any other historians get protective about an artist’s biography/oeuvre?

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.

I’ve been reading snippets of Pliny the Elder’s Natural History over the past few days, and I can’t help but think that the ancient Roman and I would have been friends. I definitely feel as curious about the world as Pliny the Elder, but hopefully I am a little more practical (i.e. I wouldn’t risk my life to observe the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius).

There are two things that I like about Natural History. For one thing, I like Pliny’s little anecdotes about artists (I’m sure my penchant for anecdotes is no surprise, gentle reader!). Even though some of the stories seem a little too legendary and far-fetched (Vasari would have loved some of these stories for his Vite), they are still quite fun. For example, Pliny devotes a whole section to stories about the Greek painter Apelles of Cos (you can read some of the stories here). One such story involves speculation that Apelles painted Alexander the Great’s mistress Pancaste for Aphrodite Rising from the Foam (“Aphrodite Anadyomene,” shown above in a Roman mural from Pompeii (House of the Marine Venus, 1st century AD) which is thought to have been based on Apelles’ original work). ¹

I’m especially amused by this story about Apelles and a picture of a horse:

“There is, or at least there once existed, a picture of a horse by Apelles. It was painted for a competition in which he sought judgment not from men but from dumb animals. For, seeing that his rivals were getting the upper hand by devious means, he showed the pictures individually to some horses he had brought in, and they neighed only at Apelles’ picture. As this frequently happened on subsequent occasions it proved to be a good test of the artist’s skill.” (Natural History XXXV:95).

The other thing I like about Pliny the Elder is his apparent passion and excitement for his subject matter. I love that he calls the pyramids “a pointless and absurd display of royal wealth.” (Natural History XXXVI: 75) (Not that I agree with that statement, I just love his frank opinion.)

I also can relate to his awe regarding the Colossus of Rhodes (one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, original c. 292-284 BC, shown left through a wood engraving reconstruction by Sidney Barclay, c. 1875). I’m always interested in how a sculpture’s scale compares to that of a human being, and Pliny seems to have that same interest: “No statue has commanded greater admiration than the Colossus of Rhodes made by Chares of Lindos, the pupil of Lysippus. It was about 105 feet high. Sixty-six years after its erection the Colossus was toppled by an earthquake, but even lying on the ground it is amazing. Few people can make their arms meet round its thumb, and the fingers alone are larger than most statues.” (Natural History XXXIV:42). (On a side note, it was announced about two years ago that the Colossus of Rhodes was going to be rebuilt as a giant light sculpture. Does anyone know if progress has been made on that project?)

Who here has read Natural History? Any likes or dislikes? If you haven’t had a chance to get to know Pliny the Elder and his thoughts on art, I’d highly recommend those few chapters from Natural History. Pliny the Elder is witty, opinionated, and just all-around interesting.

1 Pancaste could really be labeled as Alexander the Great’s ex-mistress. Pliny records that the ruler commissioned Apelles to paint Pancaste, and then Apelles ended up in love with his subject. In turn, Alexander gave Pancaste to Apelles, which Pliny noted was indicative of Alexander’s magnanimity. (Natural History XXXV:86-87).

The Earthly Paradise blog (which is a great resource for those interested in Victorian culture and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood) is hosting an art history blog carnival each month, and the first issue was released this morning. I was pleased to learn that one of my posts from Alberti’s Window was selected for this month’s issue. Hooray!

If you are an art history blogger, I’d strongly recommend that you submit a post to be considered in an upcoming issue of the blog carnival. Although I was familiar with many of the blogs and posts in this issue, I enjoyed becoming acquainted with new sites, writers, and ideas. We art history bloggers are so few; I think The Earthly Paradise could help us come together and strengthen our little blogging community.

When I visited Europe several summers ago, there were a couple of things that inspired me to pick up a sketch pad. And I’m not really an artist, so when I’m motivated to draw (and put aside the impulse to self-criticize), I’ve gotta be pretty darn inspired. Santa Maria della Salute (Venice, 1631-1687, shown right) was one of the things that inspired me to draw for a bit. Really, it was the huge baroque scrolls along the drum of the dome that I sketched (click on the image to see the scrolls in better detail).  They are awesome, and I couldn’t help but think about the large volute scrolls that flank the top of some Greek vases (like this one).

Anyhow, tonight I read here that there was a fire in seminary building near Santa Maria della Salute. (When I read about the initial fire, I immediately gasped and thought, “Are the baroque scrolls alright?” But it seems like the fire was concentrated at the nearby seminary.  Perhaps firefighters doused the roof of Santa Maria della Salute to prevent the fire from spreading. Nonetheless, my scrolls were spared! Yay!) However, water did seep in through the roof of Santa Maria della Salute, which has permanently damaged Titian’s David and Goliath (1542-44, shown right). David and Goliath was hung on the ceiling of the church, and seemed to have received the brunt of the damage. There are eight other Titian paintings located in the church, but an initial examination suggests that no damage has been done.

That’s good news, but it’s sad to hear about the ruined work.  I actually gave an empathetic moan when I read a quote by Vittorio Sgarbi (head of Venice’s museum agency) on The History Blog, which has a great post about this unfortunate disaster. Sgarbi rushed to the museum scene after seeing the fire from a nearby restaurant. He then relayed to the press that he saw “water dripping from the painting for over an hour.”

Aw. Poor man. That definitely won’t be the highlight of his career.

Luckily for us, it sounds like this painting will be able to be restored.  I don’t know if the painting can ever be “good as new” (or, er, good as it was before this deluge), but at least this painting isn’t lost forever.