Alberti’s Window

Most people are familiar with Giovanni Arnolfini because of his infamous family portrait by Jan van Eyck (1434). But did you know that Jan van Eyck made another portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini? This portrait, shown above, dates c. 1435.

I’ve never thought that Giovanni Arnolfini was very attractive, and seeing this portrait has further solidified my opinion. But who knows? Maybe he had a great personality, right?

What really caught my attention, however, is that there is a striking similarity between this portrait and Jan van Eyck’s self-portrait, (commonly called Man in a Red Turban, 1433, see below):

Notice the red turbans (which, technically, should be called chaperons) in each painting? I realize that this headgear was popular in the mid-fifteenth century (you can see more examples here), so I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that both men are portrayed this way. But there are other similarities between the portraits too, like the dark fur-lined coat and three-quarter profile view. Perhaps it isn’t coincidental that these portraits are only about two years apart. I wonder if Giovanni saw van Eyck’s self-portrait and then said, “Hey Jan, will you make me one of those too?”

It’s easy for one to make comparisons between the bizarre paintings of Hieronymous Bosch and those of his later Netherlandish counterpart, Pieter Bruegel the Elder. One can see similar interests in moralizing subject matter, bizarre imagery, and convoluted compositions by looking at these works by Bosch and Bruegel, respectively:

Hieronymous Bosch, Garden of Earthly Delights (central panel), c. 1500

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Netherlandish Proverbs, 1559

(These paintings are both so detailed and awesome that I should dedicate a post to each of them. Does anyone have a favorite vignette in either of these images? I really like the man in the foreground of Netherlandish Proverbs who is banging his head against a brick wall.)

It makes sense the Bruegel would have been influenced by Bosch, since the latter was widely popularized through prints and imitated by many artists. What I think is interesting, though, is that Bruegel’s print Big Fish Eat Little Fish (see image below) initially was sold as a Bosch engraving! This print was published by Hieronymus Cock, who was a leading humanist print publisher in Antwerp.¹. It appears that Cock hired Bruegel to imitate Bosch’s work; Cock might have used Bosch’s name as a marketing strategy, since a Bosch print would sell more easily than something by the young (and lesser known) Bruegel.²

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Big Fish Eat Little Fish, 1556

One can see how this print could fit into Bosch’s canon of works, particularly due to the strange, nightmarish images. The title of the work also makes use of a popular proverb, which is similar to some of Bosch’s titles. Furthermore, the print has a moralizing, didactic message (as emphasized by the father in the foreground, who points out the moral to his young child).

I wonder how Bruegel felt to have his work touted as a Bosch. Would Bruegel have been proud to have his work pass off as something by the popular and esteemed artist? Or perhaps he would have been upset that his handiwork was not recognized as his own?

1 Emma Barker, Nick Webb, and Kim Woods, eds., The Changing Status of the Artist, (London: Yale University Press, 1999), 111.

2 Ibid., 174.

I recently read George MacDonald’s novel Lilith, which caused me to think about the Jewish legend of Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Legend holds that Lilith was God’s first, unsuccessful attempt at creating a female companion for Adam. This dreadful attempt resulted in a female demon who attempts to corrupt the human race through lust.

One of the best sources for the Lilith story is a medieval text called Alphabet of Ben-Sira (c. 10th century AD). According to this text, Lilith was made from the earth at the same time as Adam. Lilith was an independent woman. Since she and Adam were created the same way, Lilith refused to acknowledge Adam’s superiority (was she the first feminist? ha!). Eventually she left Eden to consort with demons that live in the Red Sea. When making a second female companion for Adam, God made Eve out of Adam’s rib so there would be no question of superiority.¹ Some sources also refer to Lilith as a half-woman, half-serpent. Filled with jealousy for Eve, Lilith reportedly took on the form of a serpent in order to provoke the Fall of Man (as recorded in Genesis).² You can read a little more about the Lilith legend and history here.

The story of Lilith has inspired artists for many centuries. In the Middle Ages, many artists included a half-female serpent in depictions of the Temptation of Adam and Eve.³ One Renaissance example of the half-serpent Lilith is by Michelangelo, found on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. In the late 19th century, Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote a poem about Lilith and also painted a scene of the seductress combing her golden hair (Lady Lilith, painted 1868-69, shown to the left). Scholars agree that this painting was inspired by the description of Lilith in Goethe’s Faust (Walpurgisnacht scene).²

The most interesting article I’ve read about Lilith is by Virginia Tuttle. She argues that Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights (1505-1510, left panel of altarpiece shown below) actually includes a depiction of Adam and Lilith, not Adam and Eve. I have always wondered why there are demonic beasts in the foreground of this Garden of Eden scene (it doesn’t seem too paradisaical, does it? Although, one can’t take Bosch too seriously; this whole altarpiece is a little absurd.). However, if one considers this woman to be Lilith instead of Eve, the presence of demonic beasts makes sense.

Tuttle also convincingly argues that this left panel scene does not conform to the iconography of traditional Creation of Eve scenes. Traditionally, Adam is shown asleep or lying on his side, so that Eve easily can be created out of his rib. In other triptychs, Bosch follows this traditional iconographic format (see details in his Last Judgment triptych and Haywain triptych). However, in the Garden of Earthly Delights, Tuttle argues that it appears Lilith has been “raised up from the earth, as if she were created independently and immediately following Adam’s creation.”² I think this is a convincing argument and I recommend that people read Tuttle’s article (it can be found in JSTOR). My only reservation about this argument is that it doesn’t seem to be widely accepted. This article was written almost twenty years ago, but recent art history texts continue to label this panel as Creation of Eve. Does anyone know of (or have) criticisms for this argument?

What do other people think?

1 To read a synopsis Lilith story in the Alphabet of Ben-Sira, see Virginia Tuttle, “Lilith in Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights,” Simiolus 15, no. 2 (1985): 123.-24.

2 Jeffrey M. Hoffeld, “Adam’s Two Wives,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series 26, no. 10 (June 1968): 434.

3 For Medieval examples, see Ibid., 430-40.
4 Virginia M. Allen, “‘One Strangling Golden Hair’: Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Lady Lilith,” The Art Bulletin 66, no. 2 (June 1984): 286.

5 Tuttle, 123.

I’ve been reading a really interesting article on the Portinari Altarpiece lately.¹ The Portinari Altarpiece has been determined by earlier art historians (such as Panofsky) to contain iconography related to the Eucharist and Passion. For example, the stalks of wheat in the foreground of the central panel (shown above) are a reference to the Eucharistic bread. In the article I have been reading, Miller discusses how the actual scene of the Nativity can also be interpreted as a metaphor for salvation. She writes,

“Not only did the Nativity represent the Incarnation of the Savior but, in popular legend, the delivery itself was miraculous: it preserved Mary’s virginity and was also exempt from the usual fears, pains, and dangers of ordinary human parturition. This exemption helped to confirm the Virgin’s position as reversing Eve’s role in Original Sin, and in this way the miraculous birth could have stood as a potent metaphor for salvation.”²

The article discusses references to birth, such as the inclusion of Saint Margaret, the patron saint of childbirth. Margaret is placed on the right panel of the triptych. I never noticed this before, but there is a dragon placed at the saint’s feet for her identification! Has anybody else missed seeing that before?

A large part of Miller’s argument ties into the hospital setting for this altarpiece; she finds that elements included within this altarpiece would have had particular significance to the hospital patrons. In this sense, her article is similar to analyses of the Isenheim Altarpiece by Hayum and Mellinkoff.³ Miller mentions how the flowers in the foreground of the central panel of the Portinari Altarpiece were used for medicinal purposes in the Renaissance.⁴ The healing properties of these flowers would have been recognized by hospital patrons, who could then relate these flowers to the healing properties of Christ’s sacrifice, repentance, etc. Miller then ties her argument together by saying that miraculous childbirth is a metaphor for salvation and therefore also of healing, therefore making the subject matter of this altarpiece of interest to hospital patrons and not just iconographic details included within the work (i.e. the flowers, shafts of wheat, etc.).

I think this is an interesting and fairly convincing argument. I realize that this is a short synopsis of the article, but based on what I have written, what do other people think?

1 Julia I. Miller, “Miraculous Childbirth and the Portinari Altarpiece,” The Art Bulletin 77, no. 2, (June, 1995): 249-61. For those readers who have access to JSTOR, this article is available for reading and download.

2 Ibid., 249.

3 Ibid., 257. See also A. Hayum, “The Meaning and Function of the Isenheim Altarpiece: The Hospital Context Revisited,” Art Bulletin, LIX, 1977, 512-13; and R. Mellinkoff, The Devil at Isenheim: Reflections of Popular Belief in Grunewald’s Altarpiece, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 89.

4 Ibid.

Last weekend, while J was at a “Mantreat” with his brothers, I had time to go to The Frick Collection. I really loved going to this collection for a lot of reasons, particularly because I’m loving more and more the experience of visiting a personal collection instead of going to a museum. When visiting a collection, there usually isn’t really an “exhibition thesis” or message that the curator is trying to jam down your throat. Instead, you can simply enjoy the works and aesthetic that the collector itself enjoyed. It’s so nice. I feel like I can just focus on artistic aesthetic and beauty, instead of analyzing and historicizing. Although museums and exhibition theses have their virtues, sometimes it’s nice to just appreciate art for it’s beauty.

My biggest surprise when arriving at the Frick was seeing Holbein’s portrait of Sir Thomas More. I already was well familiar with this painting, but had never seen it in person. When I stood in front of it, I audibly gasped. There is such an energetic, vivacious quality in the red sleeves of More’s clothing – it was so gorgeous! The painting was so much more lively and animated than I had ever before thought (I have to admit, portraiture is not always my favorite type of art). I have included a reproduction which best “does justice” to the work and the glowing sleeves, but it still is a far cry from the actual work.

The sleeves were only the beginning of my love affair with this painting. The fur trim is so soft in it’s depiction -it really is a great example of how oil painters used their medium “evasively.” This isn’t oil paint at all – this is fur! The cold, heavy gold chain around More’s neck (which also parades the strengths and capabilities of Holbein and oil paint, because it has such strikingly different qualities than the other textures in the work) makes the fur seem even softer by contrast.

What a gemsticle of a work! I’ve always appreciated Northern Renaissance and Baroque art to a degree, but I think this is one of the first times that I really had a strong aesthetic experience. The bright oil colors were just too gorgeous to be overlooked. Way to go, Holbein.