Henri Regnault, Salome (1870), Metropolitan Museum of Art

According to Mark’s Gospel, Salome’s mother Herodias wanted John the Baptist dead because he spoke out against her marriage to her brother-in-law, Herod. Herod would not put John to death, because he “feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man…” (v. 20). The chance to silence John came one day when Herod was hosting a feast for dignitaries and military leaders. Salome, his stepdaughter, came to the banquet and danced for the party. Pleased with her dancing, he asked her if there was anything she wanted. The words are eerily reminiscent of Xerxes questions to Esther during their private banquet with Haman: “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it to you … even up to half my kingdom.” (v. 22-23). Unlike Esther, Salome’s response was direct. As instructed by her mother, she asked for the head of John the Baptist. Not wanting to embarrass himself in front of his guests by breaking the promise of a gift (cf. v. 26), Herod ordered the execution. The executioner brought John’s head to Salome, who brought it to her triumphant mother.

Most depictions of Salome in the nineteenth-century depict Salome with John’s severed head, Salome alone near a blood trail (like Moreau did several times), or Salome dancing before Herod. Several factors may have influenced Henri Regnault’s depiction Salome from 1870. Salome was the ultimate femme fatale. Her beauty was dangerous and she used it to her advantage. The popularity of Salome as femme fatale was in part due to authors such as Flaubert, Huysmans, and Mallarme. Perhaps also influential was the art of Regnault’s contemporary, Gustave Moreau, who had been obsessively painting and drawing Salome as a dangerously unexpected seductress since at least the 1860s. In addition to being considered the ‘ideal’ femme fatale, the theme of Salome also lent itself to the nineteenth-century fascination with the Orient and the exotic. Finally, Regnault’s Salome may also have absorbed a long-standing historical interest in the severed head and the soul post-death.

Henri Regnault, Detail from Salome (1870)

But there is no severed head. And this is precisely what is perhaps most striking about Regnault’s Salome, for she holds all the accouterments of execution; the platter and dagger are within her control, resting on her lap, clean and without blood. Her facial expression is perhaps a mischievous one – she smirks and gazes confrontationally out at the viewer, fully aware of the ominous objects she holds. One hand wraps itself delicately around the dagger, perhaps ready to unsheathe it, while the other rests on her hip as her fingers lightly touch the chest she sits on. She wears a finely ornamented, gold gown that loosely falls over her shoulder. Her gown bunches up on the floor. One foot seems to slowly be making its escape from its slipper and rubbing itself against her other foot, a subtly seductive detail. Salome’s jewelry and belt, along with the leopard-skin rug and Eastern-style chest allude to Salome’s exotic nature. And this is not without merit, for, as a princess living in Galilee, the figure of Salome would have indeed been part of the exotic world of the nineteenth century Orient.

What of John’s head, her trophy? I would argue that Regnault’s Salome is a cleverly constructed piece wherein the viewer sees the true nature of the femme fatale. On the one hand, she is exotic, beautiful, and sensual. On the other, deadly.  Her beauty and finely ornamented clothing and possessions distract from her true nature as a seductress bent on blood – or if that is too anachronistic an interpretation, then bent on lust and distracting the artist from what truly matters – his art. Salome, along with the Sphinx and Judith, was a common allegory for the artist needing to triumph over lust and things that would distract him. Many artists of this time remained bachelors, even if they had mistresses. Salome’s (or, the femme fatale) ability to catch man off guard through her beauty, sensuality, and ornamentation, was a common literary and art-historical trope in Europe, but especially in Regnault’s France. Regnault’s Salome is a visual representation of the femme fatale so warned against in intellectual circles. John’s severed head is not needed; the viewer can use their imagination and the visual cues in the painting which suggest danger. On a literal level, Salome’s platter and dagger allude to the Biblical story, receiving as their prize John’s head. Symbolically, they allude to the overwhelming and destructive powers of lust, and Salome, without regret, takes as her prize the moral essence of the viewer.

To explore the painting in greater detail, visit its page at the Met website.

This is the second post on this site solely devoted to the figure of Salome. You can find the first, which was part of a series, here.

This post is modified from its first version on the Caravaggista Tumblr.

Tags: Art, Art History, Artistic Intention, Biblical Art, femme fatale, henri regnault, nineteenth century, Salome, Violence

De Chirico, Piazza with Apollo and Ariadne, c. 1913 (top); Sleeping Ariadne, a Roman copy after a Greek original (bottom left); Apollo Belvedere, detail of face (bottom right)

Giorgio de Chirico (1888 – 1978) was a Greek-born Italian surrealist painter. His father was an Italian nationalist who moved to Greece for his job as a railway engineer. Coupled with the family’s support of a new Italy was a heavy immersion into Greek culture that began in de Chirico’s childhood. Growing up, De Chirico was surrounded by antiquities as well as the modern Greece that contemporary writers were trying to reconcile to an ideal Hellenistic Greece that they felt wasn’t worthy of the modern Greeks. De Chirico rejected the classicist ideals of his time and was uneasy with industrialization and urbanization. He went to Paris and was part of the surrealist group there for some time, until he was rejected from the group due to various conflicts. The split was so bad that Andre Breton and another surrealist published a work in a surrealist magazine called Here Lies Giorgio de Chirico, the center of which was de Chirico’s famous nearly ubiquitous tower. Dead and buried to the surrealists, de Chirico moved to Turin and made a series of piazza paintings. His works often have a train in the background, as you can see here. The train may have a dual-symbolism, in that it may represent his deceased father (a railway engineer) and/or modernity and industrialization. Also prevalent in de Chirico’s works are architecturally confused towers, which may or may not be based off of existing towers in Italy and which vary greatly in architectural form. The towers are said to be a symbol for de Chirico himself. Two classical sculptures also often make appearances in de Chirico’s work: Ariadne is a constant presence (de Chirico was obsessed with this sculpture and her form often changes shape and levels of plasticity) and the Apollo Belvedere, which for de Chirico symbolized everything he disliked about modern classicisizing artistic culture and its Winckelmannian ideals.

The painting above is a perfect example of the sense of enigma that de Chirico purposefully infused into his work. His work has always left me uneasy and unsettled, not in the way that Dali leaves me unsettled — lost in a sort of strange dream land that is strictly out of Dali’s imagination — but rather because de Chirico borrows famous classical forms and places them in absurd situations, places, and climates. Why is Apollo imprisoned in this building as if in the stocks? Is he Apollo, or is he a plaster cast? How does Ariadne relate to him? She’s more free and open, but why? Are the two men (in contemporary dress) related to her? Are they enacting a business deal? Is Ariadne a real marble, perhaps for sale or for public view, or is she, possibly like Apollo, a cast? What can be said of de Chirico’s looming presence over this scene via the tower? And his father’s — via the train? And if the train is a symbol of urbanization and modernity, does it relate to the two men shaking hands? Are the humans in the picture — modern humans, urban humans — responsible for the chaining up of classicism and the release of other types of classicism? Perhaps Apollo is symbolic of Winckelmannian ideals and he  is being kept at bay, while Ariadne represents a different type of classicism, able to be open and freely experienced and practiced. And finally, what of the box or cube at the front right of the painting (of which many make appearances in these piazzas) — is it a bench to invite us in, or is it a stumbling block, letting us stumble over and over again through this painting?

These are the things that unsettle me with de Chirico. There is no end to Why? and to curiosities. Do I even want to know the answers to these questions, or would knowing the answers make the work even more disruptive and disturbing to my art historical consciousness?

Perhaps De Chirico himself provides a clue into his shocking imagery that disrupts chronology and aesthetics:

Why for instance are the houses in France built in a certain style and not in another? There is no use citing history and the causes of this and of that; this describes, but it explains nothing for the eternal reason that there is nothing to explain, and yet the enigma always remains.

Perhaps enigma is the central meaning and function of de Chirico’s work.

Tags: Art History, Artistic Intention, classicism, giorgio de chirico, surrealism, Tumblr

In this 2010 photo, visitors admire the portrait of Caravaggio by an unknown painter during the presentation to journalists of an exhibit dedicated to the Lombard painter titled: "Caravaggio in Rome", in Rome. (AP Photo/Pier Paolo Cito file) via CBS

Yesterday,  the art world exploded with news that 100 new Caravaggio paintings and drawings had been discovered by a team of art historians in Milan at the Sforzesco Castle. The Castle is home to a collection of works from the studio of Milanese painter Simone Peterzano, who was teenage Caravaggio’s teacher for four years, from 1584 to 1588.

Art historians  Maurizio Bernardelli Curuz and Adriana Conconi Fedrigolli, who made the discovery, had been studying the Peterzano collection for two years. They are the first to attribute these works to Caravaggio. It is of importance that, as the Castle has said, all of these works have been readily visible and accessible for years, and that no such attribution has been made before despite the collection having been studied in the past:

The strangeness of the “discovery” sits with me, as well, and with many others across the web, who have commented varyingly that such a discovery would be “astonishing” and that the desire to publish the findings so quickly seems “premature” and “rushed.” The second I read the headline for this news, I was immediately skeptical. Caravaggios on such great scale? How did no one notice this before? Surely, with the growth of Caravaggio studies especially in the past couple decades, someone, somewhere, would have at the least entertained the idea.

Indeed, confusion about the discovery’s timing is a major contributor to apprehension about the research. Why, if these works have been in the castle’s collection for years, has no art historian or Caravaggio specialist ever hinted at these works’ creator? If these works had been discovered in 2010, some might attribute such a large scale find to the 400th anniversary of Caravaggio’s death – and the rush of scholarship and attributions and new discoveries that went along with that magnificent and flurried year for Caravaggio studies. But these works have been in the Castle’s collection for years.  The Castle’s administrators themselves were uncertain about the discovery and the rushed publication of the research:

The reason for the immediate eBook publication is indeed perplexing. Perhaps, however, the art historians wanted their research to be immediately accessible without waiting for the red tape and process that accompanies publication in academic journals. I’m not sure of the motives behind the quick publication, but skepticism is reaonable.

The largest and most pressing mystery is, of course, is the validity of the attributions. The news has been ablaze again today with debate over the accuracy and methodology of the research, and the scholarly community has begun expressing both doubt and excitement about this new theory. Art historians are divided. Even the Vatican has commented on the validity of the attributions, saying that the readiness to attribute such a large body of drawings to Caravaggio was greatly optimistic. For now, I am inclined to agree with art historian John T. Spike, who told the Telegraph today:

Dr. Spike has also noted via Facebook that one of the sketches is quite possibly of a sculpture that was not yet made (“make that ninety-nine” possible artworks! — put a smile on my face)!

Click to enlarge.

The debate has highlighted that there is still plenty of mystery surrounding Caravaggio’s life, and if these paintings and drawings prove authentic, they will open up a floodgate of new work that will be worth years of additional studies about Caravaggio’s art and life. If, however, these works are deemed as falsely attributed, they will have begun a fresh dialogue in the academic and art communities about Caravaggio, and hopefully new ideas will blossom about his early life based on this find and the discussion it has already begun to  ignite.

The findings have been released in a two-volume  eBook, available on Amazon. The ebook is formatted for Amazon Cloud Reader, Kindle for PC/Mac (iPad), and Kindle Fire and is available in multiple languages.

Have you been following this story? Do you think the paintings and sketches are of artistic importance, or do you agree with those, such as Dr. Claudio Strinati, who find the research “interesting but not important”?

Tags: Academia, Art History, Caravaggio, Debate, John T. Spike, Museums, News

Caillebotte c. 1787.

Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894)

Gustave Caillebotte was trained by celebrated French painter Leon Bonnat. He was three years out of Bonnat’s studio when he first exhibited with the Impressionists, and over the years his style did not stray much from the teachings of Bonnat, whose works generally contain a serious, Velasquezesque air.

Caillebotte, The Floor-scrapers, 1875

Caillebotte debuted his works at the Impressionists’ second exhibition in 1876. He  was the star of the show. His series The Floor-scrapers received numerous excited reviews. One of the most commonly used words to describe Caillebotte’s series was “original.”  was one such critic. In the 8 April 1876 issue of La Gazette, Marius Chaumelin, an art critic who had never heard of Caillebotte, implored:

For The Academy, a London periodical, Philippe Burty wrote on 15 April 1876  that The Floor-scrapers was “energetic,” calling to mind Florentine art. And, in a separate, earlier review of 1 April 1876, in La Republique Francaise, Burty exclaimed that Caillebotte was “a beginner whose beginnings will create a sensation”—a prediction that came into fruition quickly. Caillebotte was the critic favorite from the time he first exhibited in 1876 until the seventh Impressionist (and his last) exhibition in 1882.

At the exhibition of 1882, Caillebotte’s paintings were unhappily received by many critics (and some paintings at prior exhibits were also negatively reviewed, though not to nearly the same extent). Jean de Nivelle, writing for Le Soleil on the 4 March 1882, commented “One of the most relentless Independents, Caillebotte, is showing around twenty hilarious paintings.” On 2 March 1882, the infamous art critic Albert Wolff noted that “[w]hen Caillebotte is not demented, he has as much talent as anyone.” As satirical or amusing as these comments might be, they are part of a consistent whole that recognized the fall of Caillebotte, once welcomed for his refreshing “non-Impressionist” style. As true taches Impressionism became more popular, Caillebotte became an outsider and was, in a way, betrayed by his own style. Caillebotte was 34 at the time. He never exhibited his work again.

Like art historian Richard R. Brettell, I am skeptical about just how “Impressionist”  Caillebotte’s paintings are—and were, in their late 19th century context. Even though the Impressionists’ styles varied from artist to artist, Caillebotte’s varied to a degree of complete difference. Critics must have noticed this difference, even if they didn’t write about it, especially since Caillebotte’s works were in the same room as Monet’s and their stylistic differences would have been impossible to overlook. Also noticeable across these exhibits would have been the different focus that Caillebotte’s art had when contrasted with his contemporaries’ art.

As a whole, Caillebotte does not focus on celebrating the fleeting moments of joy and livelihood in French life as his contemporaries so often displayed; nor on capturing the “special characteristics of the modern individual.” His exhibited works vary in theme and are “ordinary,” as critics sometimes called his work. His art was caught between the solemn, austere mood he was trained in and the glorious, excited style that he exhibited alongside. Caillebotte captured the vibrant nature of Parisian life and merged it with the desire for a renewed sense of national pride that much of France was feeling at this time as they recovered from the humiliating defeat of the Franco-Prussian war.

“Art must produce virile and grand works, worthy of the task in front of us, styles worthy of the terrible times we have come through and of the future that awaits us.” — Louis Emile Edmond Duranty, 1876

The above was modified from an honors paper I wrote while at UCLA.

Tags: Art Critics, Art History, Caillebotte, Exhibition, French Art, French History, History, Impressionists