Alberti’s Window

With Valentine’s Day around the corner, I thought people would like to look at Flavorwire’s article, “The 10 Best Art Kisses of All Time.” My two favorite pieces that are highlighted in the article are Rodin’s The Kiss (1889) and Brancusi’s The Kiss (1908 version found through link).

I would have also included Canova’s Cupid and Psyche (c. 1787-1793, see detail here) on the list. Even though technically the figures have just kissed or are about to kiss (depending on who you ask), it’s a much more beautiful sculpture than that horrid drawing by Picasso (listed as #9 in the article). Ugh.

Do you know of any other works of art which are appropriate for Valentine’s Day?

Happy Valentine’s Day!

A student sent me some fun links with images of Barbie that reference famous works of art. I recently saw something along these lines with drawings of Barbie, but I like that the actual dolls are used as models for most of these images. Check them out:

Barbie as Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Nefertiti, etc.
Barbie as a Warhol print

Photographer Mariel Clayton has a whole series of Barbie photographs that reference famous works of art (see the “Hystoria” section on her website). She has kindly given me permission to reproduce a few images here. They are all quite fun, but I think that her recreation of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring is my favorite.

Do any other professors find themselves talking about Barbie in art history courses? Whenever I teach about ancient art, students always bring up Barbie in comparison with the Venus of Willendorf. I enjoy comparing how the standards and ideals for representing the female figure (and perhaps beauty) have changed since prehistoric times, but I think it’s interesting that students best understand (or relate to?) this concept in conjunction with Barbie.

Some of my long-time readers will remember my previous post on Saint Lucy, whose iconography (or visual symbol) is a pair of eyeballs. I remember being struck by how St. Lucy’s iconography was so unusual (and kinda grotesque, in my opinion). Some comments on that previous post mentioned another unusual example of hagiographic iconography: Saint Agatha carries her breasts on a platter (see an example by Zurbaran here). Today, though, I remembered another female figure associated with kinda bizarre iconography: Diana of Ephesus. Although Diana (or “Artemis” to the ancient Greeks) isn’t a Catholic saint like Lucy and Agatha (she’s a fertility goddess from classical mythology), I would have to say that her iconography might be the most unusual of all. Take a look:

With breasts aplenty, it’s easy to tell that Diana of Ephesus was an ancient goddess of fertility, but her iconography might be little more complex than one would suppose! In 1979 a scholar name Gerard Seiterle pointed out that none of the supposed breasts of Diana/Artemis figurines have nipples. Seiterle argued that instead of breasts, Diana is laden will bull testes.¹ This is an interesting argument for two reasons: 1) the bull was symbol of fertility in ancient times and 2) the altar at Ephesus would have been large enough to sacrifice a bull. Although Seiterle’s argument is not accepted by all scholars (I personally don’t feel quite convinced), it does add an interesting element to the discussion of Diana’s iconography, don’t you think?²

Even if early depictions of Diana do not include nipples on her breasts, I noticed that later depictions do include nipples:

Diana of Ephesus was a very popular goddess in ancient times (in fact, some readers may be interested to know that worship of Diana is mentioned in the Bible (see Acts 19:28 and Acts 19:35). Additionally, Diana’s temple at Ephesus (Temple of Artemis) was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. I get the sense, though, that she wasn’t as popular (and more specifically, her traditional iconography wasn’t as popular) in more recent artistic periods like the Renaissance (although some examples from later periods exist, as I’ve shown above).³ Perhaps Diana of Ephesus’ multi-breasted appearance was too far from the Renaissance standards of idealization?

If you can put forward a more unusual type of iconography than Diana of Ephesus, speak up!

*UPDATE (07/12): Upon visiting the Ephesus Archaeological Museum this past summer, I purchased a copy of the museum catalog. The museum wholly endorses Seiterle’s interpretation. This is what the catalog says, “The distinctive feature that all these three statues [the Great Artemis, the Beautiful Artemis, and the Little Artemis statuette] have in common in the presence of multiple pieces resembling eggs, hanging on the goddess, who was thought to have a connection with the way of worship, and initially, since these were believed to be breasts, the Artemis Ephesia was referred to as the Multi-breasted Artemis for years. Interpretations regarding them as bunches of grapes, dates or eggs, however, did not gain much credence.

In 1978, G. Seiterle came up with a new interpretation. He claimed that these pieces resembling eggs were bull testicles offered to the goddess in religious rituals, as a symbol of fertility. In order to prove his claim, he presented a reconstruction of the statue with testicles hung on it. The resulting sight was identical with the statue!

Excavations at around the altar of the temple also indicated that the bull had a great cultural impact for the Artemis cult. Thus the much-debated academic question was resolved.”⁴

2 Wikipedia mentions here that Seiterle’s argument was “accepted in the 1980s by Walter Burkert and Brita Alroth, among others, criticised and rejected by Robert Fleischer, but widely popularized.” For an argument against Seiterle, see Fleischer, “Neues zur kleinasiatischen Kultstatue” Archäologischer Anzeiger 98 1983:81-93; Bammer 1990:153.

3 It’s interesting to note that a Renaissance humanist scholar might have been interested in Diana of Ephesus, though. It’s possible that Andrea Odoni is holding a statuette of Diana of Ephesus in his portrait (painted by Lorenzo Lotti, 1527). See portrait and discussion here.

4 Cengiz Topal et. al (Curators of the Ephesus Museum), Ephesus Museum Guide (Istanbul: BKG Publications, 2010), 120.

I introduced Jan van Eyck to my students about a week ago, but I haven’t stopped thinking about him since. It’s known that van Eyck (depicted in a supposed self-portrait, The Man with the Red Turban, 1433, on right) worked as court painter for Philip the Good, Duke of Burgandy. This position was extremely advantageous for van Eyck, and essentially helped the artist to develop an individual reputation (as opposed to many unknown artists, who were involved in collaborative artistic workshops which were regulated by the local guilds).

We know a little about van Eyck’s duties at Philip’s court. For example, the artist was sent in an embassy which was charged with the duty of requesting Isabella of Portugal’s hand in marriage to Philip. But I wish I knew more about the paintings that van Eyck produced for Philip the Good. Unfortunately, none of the paintings survive; the only extant works by van Eyck were produced for other, private patrons.¹ (I assume that all of these Philip-the-Good-paintings were destroyed in the iconoclastic riots of the 16th century, but I have not come across a comprehensive discussion of how/why these works no longer exist. That being said – if anyone could point me to specific information on this topic, I’d be most grateful!).

I also wish that we knew more information about Jan van Eyck’s brother, the painter Hubert van Eyck. I think the paucity of information is rather surprising, given how much information is available about Jan. What do know, however, is that a “Master Hubert” was paid to paint panels in churches in both 1409 and 1413, and it seems likely that this painter is referring to Jan’s brother (believe it or not, Hubert wasn’t a terribly common name back then!).

There is only one definitive work by Hubert which survives: the Ghent altarpiece (1432, on left, see version of the altarpiece with closed wings here). Yep – the work which is touted as a masterpiece by Jan van Eyck (and for good reason, nonetheless), was actually begun by Hubert, as noted by a contemporary inscription (dated 6 May 1432, the date of the altarpiece’s dedication).² According to the inscription, the altarpiece was finished by Jan, “‘[Hubert’s] brother, second in art'” at the request of patron Jodocus Vijd.² It appears that Hubert’s death left the work unfinished: the inscription suggests that large areas of at least the lower layers of paint could be seen at the time of Hubert’s passing.³

Wait – you’re saying that you haven’t ever heard of Hubert and his role in the Ghent altarpiece? I’m not surprised. With the “cult of the artist-genius” so prominent in art (and art history textbooks), it makes sense that people would shy away from (or ignore?) a discussion of Hubert. Mentioning any artistic collaboration would diminish the idea that Jan was a solitary master, a genius beyond equal. This idea ties in with my earlier discussion of Jef Vanderveken, the 20th century copyist who painted a new panel on the Ghent altarpiece (after “The Just Judges” panel was stolen in 1934). Poor Jef and Hubert. They both are relatively forgotten, having been lost in the mystic shadow which art history has cast for Jan van Eyck.