Fayum portraits

If you haven't seen the latest issue of Smithsonian magazine (and really, how many people do get this rather light-weight but always interesting magazine of our own national museums in DC?), then you might not know about fayum portraits, those absolutely exquisite head portraits produced upon a person's death and fixed onto their coffin, or into their mummy wrappings.

See what a small section it is!

I would encourage you to go to the Smithsonian website and look at more examples, or if in New York City go to The Met where the young boy show in the middle above is currently on display in Gallery 38. They are also on display at the Louvre, British Museum and the small and often neglected Brooklyn Museum has one too!

The portraits seem to be largely produced in the 3rd Century AD in Egypt's Fayum region (see map to the left) and blend Greco-Roman portraiture style into their own technique of using beeswax and pigment. Analyses of the pieces have revealed the use of a plant-derived red pigment used for much of the clothing and a combination of a lead white and a blue pigment to create the striking eyes. Gold leaf can also be seen in the portrait above on the far right.

Having just seen the Renaissance portraiture show at the Met, I am amazed at how striking these portraits are. We tend to think of the Renaissance as the time of high-art. This is reasonable given some of the innovations (perspective, anatomy studies), the political support for the arts by the Church (Sistine Chapel) and families (the Medici), as well as the constant energy of the artists (Michelangelo, Botticelli). Nevertheless, these portraits remind us that powerful artistry is present even when least suspected.

Prints

I really enjoy learning new words, even ones that can not serve my Scrabble game. Today I learned the term for early prints: Incunabula. The word means cradle in Latin but was used to designate simple prints usually of a single easy image produced during the earliest stages of printing from movable type (apparently before 1500)–perhaps a saint card that could be carried on one's person.

Though the Chinese invented paper and printed books and pictures from woodblocks, the 15th century radicalized printing technology. With the advent of movable text, suddenly a whole host of complications could be introduced into a picture as well. Individually designed artist prints started being created, in which the artist was on site to confirm the quality of the piece.

Woodcuts precede metal engraving but both techniques require a great deal of skill, which is one reason why so many woodblock prints are not pleasing to me. The technique is often rough, something you never find with Dürer.

Albrecht Dürer was born in Nüremburg, the son of a goldsmith who had the advantage of being able to travel after completing his apprenticeship under Michael Wolgemut, a successful artist with a large studio. It is possible that he planned to go see Schongauer, the great engraver, but when he arrived in Colmar, Schongauer had died the month previous.

This marvelous engraving of The Temptation of Saint Anthony is an example of Schongauer's work. In engraving, v-shaped grooves are carved, with a tool called a burin, into metal (usually copper but silver, gold and other metals can work too). Ink is spread across so that it seeps into the grooves, the sheet of metal is then wiped clean so that the only ink is in the indentations before a piece of paper is placed on it and pressed with the image. The engraving appears on the paper as a mirror image of the engraving. Vasari says that Michelangelo copied this engraving for his own Trial of Saint Anthony.

Dürer is known for his engravings and they are beautiful, though his oil and watercolor paintings also deserve to be appreciated. In the Fall of Man, from 1504, we can see all of his skill evident. Not only does he produce subtle shadows on the skin of Adam and Eve, but the animals and woods reveal his ready hand at nature too. A placard hangs from the stick that Adam is holding in his right hand which dates and signs the piece.

Adam, I am told, recalls the Apollo Belvedere, which was excavated in Italy during Dürer's lifetime. Most seem to believe that he would have seen a drawing of it, which he then used as a model for Adam's posture. Remembering that engraving produces a mirror reflection allows the model to become even more evident.

Prints are still used by artists to allow their work to be disseminated, appreciated by those many of us who can not afford the larger, more expensive canvas works. The history of prints and printmaking deserves more of my attention but suffice to say that it is an excellent way to collect and support those artists whose work you admire but can not afford. Limited edition series become valuable in their own right, if that is an issue of concern for you...and if you really need proof: Warhol. But that is another print conversation altogether.

Michelangelo's letters

Debra Parker recently published a book, Michelangelo and His Letters. Though the title might suggest that it is for students of literature or history, it is actually intended for art historians.

Her study is intentionally cross-disciplinary, with each chapter offering an understanding of Michelangelo that could then be applied to his art. Michelangelo letters contain info about his life, business affairs, family trials, problems of his projects, materials; they provide information about his work, contractual obligations, relationships with patrons, friends, etc. As such they have largely been used to reveal the historical Michelangelo which privileges the realism of the letters as an archive rather than their literary source as an exploration of his artistic sense. He was a consummate artist and a skilled rhetorician, "wielded his pen boldly" in his poems and the letters as well, and yet they have never been studied for their literary quality.

Biographers bring different vested interests to their own projects and as such letters are usually read in that light. Vasari, for example, aggrandizes his relationship, even altering the letters to underscore his closeness to Michelangelo. Condivi, who had been Michelangelo's friend, tried to correct Vasari and dispel rumours of Michelangelo's arrogance and worse. In the 19th cnetury, Aurelio Gotti tried to redce the semblance of any anger in his letters by focusing the story of his biography on pleasant family matters. More letters came to light and were slowly incorporated although Michelangelo's heirs did not want the letters to be widely available. 

Each chapter has a focus on an aspect of his letters that art historians can use for their own research. Chapter 2 focuses on his use of aphorism, repetitions, oppositions, comparatives, intentional. The intensification of his language is, apparently, analog to the expressive use of gesture in his visual art. Though much has been made of the topic of enslavement in his poetry, Parker examines his regular discussion of such feelings in his letters as well, how he is enslaved by project, using words such as bondage, captivity-though I must say this sounds like any artist working on commission.

She concludes having demonstrated that he truly excelled at communicating what he wished to communicate. To take Michelangelo at his words is problematic because it provides a simplistic reading of a complicated man. He was not just angry, or arrogant, or desperate. Reading the letters purely for their narrative assumes a desire to provide a single unit man at the end. Looking at his language, however, does not privilege one characteristic or style of discourse. Looking at a cluster of words and their affiliate connotations keeps this from happening, by offering multiple ways of meaning, deeper patterns. It offers a model of reading, a cautious approach to his letters, that is common among literary scholars but may not be so in art history.

This is what interdisciplinary work provides ideally, that is the tools of one field in a manner that can be incorporated in another field with discrimination. It reveals a potential tie to both worlds rather than overwhelming one or subduing another. Whether the book proves useful to art historians, only time will tell but I can certainly hope that her respectful effort is considered by any who are embracing cross-disciplinary work.

The Tax Collector

It seems appropriate today to think about taxes, though if you already filed you might wish not to be reminded, for which I then apologize. Earlier this week I was reading about Caravaggio whose The Calling of St. Matthew is in the Contarelli Chapel, Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome which seems appropriate to address now.

The Bible says, in Matthew 9:9, that Levi, counting his money, once summoned by Saint Peter and Christ immediately left his life of finance to be a disciple and the apostle, Saint Matthew: Jesus saw a man named Matthew at his seat in the custom house, and said to him, "Follow me", and Matthew rose and followed him. Now just about the last thing any of us need is someone from the IRS believing they are on a mission from God, or to God, so let's forget about how I got to this painting today and laugh that I argued with someone this week about that wrist, limply pointing a finger at Levi, who responds with a surprised pointing at himself.

For someone who has not studied the Sistine Chapel in depth, that hand is reminiscent of the Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling gesturing between God and Adam. I have included a close up of both here because after looking more closely I have decided that indeed Adam's hand does resemble Christ's. 

The painting may not be Caravaggio's strongest (so 'they' say) although the split second of stillness amid the money counting, Christ's entrance, St. Matthew's calling seems perfectly executed to me. Another work by Caravaggio, The Fortune Teller, will be at the Italian Cultural Institute from May 11- 13th where hand gestures continue to play a vital role in the action, in which today's fortune would have been exchanged for a future fortune, but the young man looks as convinced as I would be.

Killer Painting

Though reading Ancient texts can sometimes drag with their catalogues of ships, warriors, geneologies, there are occasionally moments that even the worst translator can't ruin.

The Argonautica by Appolonius of Rhodes does not start off with a bang, by which I mean reading Book 1 (of 4) can feel endless as the women weep to have the men following Jason to steal the golden fleece, the men build a ship with the assistance of Athena, they sail around and backwards, find women to satisfy them on another island, leave them with yet more accounts of wailing, and on to the next island with slight variation. But Book 2, begins with a fantastic boxing scene so vivid that I can't believe it has not been painted.

Polydeukos "took off his closely woven fine-textured mantle" while King Amykos "threw down his thick dark cloak, pins and all, and the herdsman's rough-cut staff of wild mountain olive that he carried". They prepare themselves, selecting knuckle straps cut from rawhide, tanned dry, toughened, to be wound around their fists by their servants. One shadowboxes to test his skill, while the other stands by in silence.

They fight, "blow after blow continually resounds so the cheeks and jaws of both of these combatants sounded when struck and an endless noise of grinding teeth was heard". They pull away and rest. They return, but as Amykos rises to his full height, "rising on toe like an ox butcher, and bringing his heavy hand slamming down on him, Polydeukos sidestepped the blow, withdrawing his head, so that he caught the forearm glancingly on one shoulder; then whipping in, knee past knee, he drove home over the ear a blow that shattered the inner bones".

Sweat flying, blood pours as the head leads a limp body to the ground. Eyes stunned, still open.

The men of Amykos rise with clubs to come after Polydeukos, whose men circle him with scabbards, "first Kastor struck a man on the head as he bore down on him, and the skull, split lengthways, dropped in halves on either shoulder".

It goes on. Polydeukos' men defeat Amykos' men, who eventually flee, leaving their orchards and villages to be plundered. We desire as they did. We work. We destroy, day to day, companies and countries, economies and more common things. Heroes were the Everyman writ large.

I want Titian color, Michelangelo scale, the stress of Van Gogh, I want globs of paint like gore. Medea may be psychological and so interesting in that way, but this language from Book 2 of a boxing match turned gang violence rivals a Mike Tyson match. I want the audacity that slices through a holistic vision and halves our mental tenacity. I want to feel the work–be overtaken by the picture's power, pride and superiority–not nod in ironic correspondence with some over-conceptualized, hyper-textual, isolationist musing produced by a beardo who loses Life for the perfection of pretense. I crave the wild possibilities of killer painting!