Here’s some of the stories:

Conversations like this one aren’t limited to undergraduate study, sadly. When I tell people I will be studying art history in graduate school in the Fall, the response is often some variant of  “Don’t want to be in the real world, eh?” I hate to shatter their worldview, but graduate school is the real world. My work will just not be the same as “real world” people, who don’t spend eight hours a day reading primary sources about Caravggio’s police record or grading undergraduate student work. (Both those things, by the way, make this almost-grad-student immensely happy and I would do it for the rest of my life.)

I thought that this perception would change once I told people I was in graduate school, but that, too, has become plagued by a perception that graduate students are such because they want to escape the economy and hide out in academia for a few years. I don’t deny that there are graduate students out there who undergo graduate study for this reason, and it has its merits, but it isn’t something that can be slapped on as the definitive motive for graduate study. It’s gotten to the point where I qualify my upcoming “doomed fate” by saying that this is what I love to do and I’d rather be a poor graduate student than a rich woman stuck at a job I have no passion for.

I think the root of the problem is ignorance about what art history is and, perhaps more importantly, what it has been in the past and thus how it has molded and impacted other fields of study. How can we as a society begin to correct public perception about art history? Sometimes I feel like its counterparts — museum studies and art conservation — garner more respect from the public because their intrinsic value and career options are more readily accessible in the public mind.

The ignorance displayed when talking about art history is often underscored by concern, as you read above in the stories given — for an art history student’s job prospects and financial situation, the value of their education, and if their time could have been (or be) better spent. It isn’t uncommon for us art history majors to hear things like, “Why don’t you go to (law or medical) school instead?” These types of statements assume that money and material status, often signifiers of success, are the most important thing — the highest goal. While I’m sure that none of us would turn down wealth and material possessions (in fact, a recent survey conducted found that as women become more educated they desire higher paying careers — men as well, but the opportunity is rising for women), the truth is that it’s nearly impossible to be an art history major for “the money,” which means that we’re in it for something else. For the intrinsic glory of an art historical mystery solved, or the education that comes with an interdisciplinary field like this one, or the intrigue of studying past modes of expression. Whatever our individual reasons for choosing this field, we all have them.

I don’t think we can point fingers to a single social occurrence and blame that for existing perceptions about art history. Rather, I think perceptions of art history and the deep sense of concern that arises from telling someone what we’re studying, is indiciative of a society that has, over time, emphasized empirical evidence and the sciences over pursuits of the mind, which, in the past, were held in high esteem.

Efforts by non-profit organizations, academic institutions, and museums are being made to re-emphasize the importance of the arts and art history, which is perhaps the best avenue to begin increasing public knowledge about the importance of the arts and art history. Any misinformation in the public realm that exists about the value of the arts and art history can and should be corrected by the above institutions as well as by professionals on a more microscopic level. Certainly, their efforts are not buttressed by recent reports that have found fine arts and history (art history would be a blend of these) to be among “the most useless college degrees” (in a study by Georgetown University; you can also see a visual summary of this study at the Daily Beast). Indeed, it could be argued that the media is a huge part of why the public feels the way they do about fine arts, history, and art history majors. When seen in this light, the public’s concern over our job prospects and education value is an echo of the media’s constant barraging of the message of despair that their child/relative, who majors in one of the Most Useless College Degrees, will find employment only by some great miracle. Finding employment has proved difficult for many recent college graduates (if I can understate greatly — it did take me eight months to find a job, including looking for three months pre-commencement), but it isn’t impossible. I also wouldn’t trade my study in art history for any amount of wealth or job permanence.

I’ll sing art history’s praises for the rest of my academic career, because I love what I do, and I want my passion for this field to spark curiosity in other people, so that they love it, too.

The film reminded me of my very first introduction to academia. When I was four or five years old, my mom, then a graduate student in theology, took me with her on an errand to one of her professor’s office hours. Like her, he had a small child, and we both loved Legos. That day, the professor presented me with the biggest tub of Legos I have ever seen. It was as tall as I was. Enamored with this Santa Claus-esque man, I wanted to know more about him. As we were leaving, I asked my mom who he was and what he did. “He’s a thinker doctor,” she said, “He gets paid to think.” (Translation: philosophy professor). My eyes got wide, I’m sure, and those words would stick with me until present day: he gets paid… to think. He must be really smart, I thought. I’m sure I also thought that I would never be smart enough to be a “thinker doctor” or get paid for my thoughts. Twenty years later, I’m eager to challenge my mind through an academic life.

“Footnote” struck a chord in me. It’s the type of film that stays with you, gnaws at you, the kind that you need to chew on for a long time. It was a powerful statement about academic success and the importance of academic flexibility, but also a poignant story of a family that has been pulled into their patriarch’s work and the consequences that follow. The father, Eliezer, has only been cited once in his entire decades-long career. His greatest dream (that he treasures secretly within himself) is to be recognized for his work, so when the call comes that he won the prize, he awakens as if from a deadened sleep. His son, Uriel, has received many accolades for his own work, which is theoretical as opposed to his father’s more scientific, exact methods. Eliezer is extremely stubborn and unwilling to compliment his son’s work or accomplishments because he disagrees with Uriel’s methods. Eliezer’s stubbornness and refusal to express pride in his son’s work only worsens after he wins the coveted prize. Uriel desires Eliezer’s approval as a father, if not an academic, and, when Eliezer wins the Israel Prize, Uriel makes huge personal and career sacrifices to ensure not just his father’s happiness, but his father’s feeling of success. This was the moment Eliezer had secretly been waiting for. Who was Uriel — or the decisions committee, which Eliezer’s arch-nemesis chaired — to say that his father’s work wasn’t good enough to have won the prize or that he didn’t deserve it after decades of dedication to his field? And so, Uriel defends his father’s right to the prize.

Eliezer sends his work to the wind after a heart-wrenching development in his academic career occurs.

The film ends on a thought-provoking note. Ever since, I’ve been thinking about many of the issues the film addresses. In addition to examining issues such as inter-departmental competition, familial father-son conflicts, and the sacrifices we make to achieve our dreams, one of the biggest questions the film raised is what makes an academic successful? Is it the number of awards he has? Can he be considered successful if he has never (or scarcely) been cited by his peers? Is success in the eye of the beholder? Is it determined by a mix of all of these, or none of these?  Footnote also raises the question of academic stubbornness. Does sticking to one method, and one method only, set one up for failure (or lack of recognition) later on? I’ve always been of the conviction that academic flexibility — willingness to explore work that uses other methods than your own — is of paramount importance as a scholar.  These questions have been strangely fun to think about over the past few weeks and as I prepare for graduate school.

I’d like to close with these encouraging words Eliezer spoke to one of his students (they are, the film says, some of  his favorites):

Your paper is good, “only the new things are not correct and the correct things are not new.”

I suppose I should begin by defining what I think anthropomorphism is, although given all the debate presented in the Art Bulletin I am beginning to doubt that any single definition is sufficient let alone if I will ever really know what it means. Carolyn Dean argues that “[t]o practice anthropomorphism is to employ a category that does not resonate universally.” While I understand her point (which we will examine below), I can’t say I agree. Anthropomorphism to me is the resemblance of humanity in a work of art and/or the implanting of human characteristics, ideals, etc. into a work of art. Perhaps the latter can be termed anthropomorphic meaning and the former is simply, anthropomorphism, or (physically) resembling humans.

Pedro de Mena, St. Francis (detail), 1663.

The first discussion, by artist Elizabeth King, discusses anthropomorphism as the notion that anthropomorphism is the physical resemblance of humans, and that we in turn respond to and recognize that resemblance.  Of a polychrome sculpture of Saint Francis, she writes:

It’s easy to respond to something that we recognize as being like ourselves. St. Francis is human, after all, even if a saint. We see him catching his breath, responding and living within this small sculpture the way we respond and live, reminding us of the realities of faith.

But what about when the art we view is not so “human,” not so readily recognizable as being similar to us? Then again, who is “us“?

Carolyn Dean explains anthropomorphism from the worldviews of the Quechua speakers, who live in the Andes, and the Inca. For the Quechua speakers, anthropomorphism in “our” (or “Western”) terms presents itself as something unfamiliar to “us.” The Andeans

For the Quechua speaking people, then, anthropomorphism in its own way has been ubiquitous across their culture for centuries: human beings are called runa, and runa are categorized according to the above. Anthropomorphism isn’t a relevant term to art of this culture since they have their own set of criteria for determining what is and is not like them. Art historians of “Western” thought wouldn’t necessarily define anthropomorphism in this sense. Art displays anthropomorphic traits when it is simply resembling humans — there is no deeper distinction or division.

And this brings us to Carolyn Dean’s next point, that for the Inca, anthropomorphic qualities were seen in things that were inherently not human (by scientific terms), namely, in rocks:

Dean’s discussions of the Quechua speakers and the Inca beg the questions if anthropomorphism, like many things, is in the eye of the beholder, if its definitions vary by culture, if it’s even a wise or relevant term that art historians can use to describe human qualities.  I wouldn’t have understood rocks in Inca culture to have such qualities unless someone had told me. Someone did, and now that rocks are imbued with humanity, what is the signifier in art that denotes that I am looking at something anthropomorphic, like me?

Is anthropomorphism — humanity in art — simply not possible in a world that increasingly reduces things to scientific terms, as J.M. Bernstein toys with? He writes:

Can or should we support “scientific naturalism” — taking anthropomorphism and its qualities, and trading them for a humanity that  is measured solely through science? What would become of art, that “natural abode of anthropomorphism”? Art is, after all, as Bernstein describes it “a moment in an endless effort to ascribe human form to the forever nonhuman, as if we could only make sense of humanity by seeing it projected onto what is patently other than human.” Art, as an inanimate object, isn’t human. Yet, we imbue it with human form, have it eschew human morals and beliefs, recognize it as being in a way “like us.”

But what happens when art, for its viewers, is human, or … divine? Jane Garnett and Gervase Rosser collaborate to discuss the miraculous image.  Miraculous images are found all over societies, on walls, in churches, in private chapels, in homes, causing the faithful to remember the power of these images and respond to the divine with thanks. Although I found the discussion slightly out of place in the consistent and thorough discussion taking place of “anthropomorphism” proper, the article was nonetheless thought provoking. The questions it addressed and raised were how humans respond to art, especially art that portrays a divine event, is itself imbued with divinity, and/or commemorates the faithfulness of the divine. Often, these images lend themselves to a communal yet private experience. For example, an effigy of the Virgin Mary was paraded through the streets of one village. In those moments, she was Mary, bringing with her all the virtues of her heavenly position. The effigy connected with the community as a whole and served as symbol of their collective faith but it also lent itself to private experiences of awe and worship with individual members of the community as they gazed up at her. Such experiences are not just for the modern world. In Baroque Spain, for instance, polychromed sculptures, usually specifically designed for procession, pasos, would be carried through the streets, with the community gathered. In ancient Egypt, too, similar processions occurred with divine art. Communities come together and recognize the common deity among them. They are often in human form — with human bodies and characteristics. They bleed and cry and gaze up in awe and yet there is something intrinsically otherworldly about them and in this way, they are not human. We, the viewers, are the lesser beings before these images, asking for mercy or aid or simply being struck with the sacredness of the image. We are wounded along with these images, as Elizabeth King wrote.

And after all of this, what is anthropomorphism, really?

I will never truly know, but I can grasp at it.

One of the major people in my life who took a chance on me and believed in me passed away a couple years ago. I never got to tell him that I got in to UCLA, when most of his colleagues told me I never would. I never got to tell him that I graduated from UCLA with all three of the honors that the College of Letters & Science offers. And I’ll never get to tell him that I was accepted to graduate school this year.

Mr. Spica taught AP Art History at my high school. In my senior year, I became extremely interested in this field and wanted to take the AP Art History course being offered. It was the second semester by the time enrollment opened up. The first semester covered art since the beginning of time (okay, not really) through the 15th century. Like any good teacher, Mr. Spica knew that usually the first semester of any course provides you with the foundational information you’ll need for the second semester. And thus, he was adamant that I not be allowed to enroll. I got a letter of recommendation from one of my teachers (who majored in art history in college). He still wouldn’t let me in, worried that my lack of knowledge would bring the rest of the class down and force the class to move at a slower pace. I told him that I would sit in his class until he enrolled me. This agreement worked.

My first day sitting in, he gave us a test. We were to write essays in response to slides on the screen within thirty minutes. I’d never written an art historical essay before, and I’d never seen most of the slides. I also had no idea what on earth an “art history” essay was – as if it could be any different than other essays! I remember one slide in particular, the gardens at Versailles. I had no idea why these gardens were designed as such, but  I could tell by the massive amount of land they take up and their rather ornate landscaping that whoever designed them did so as a visual and physical reminder of their power and wealth. Mr. Spica graded these essays on a scale of 0 to 5. I got a 1. My next “test” was the homework, what he called style sheets. Style sheets were charts that had an artist’s name, years active, art historical period, examples of their art, and descriptions of their style. These were graded on a scale of 1 to 10. I got a 10 on my first style sheet, and he decided to let me enroll in the class.

My fellow students told me that, with his monotone voice, I would fall asleep in Mr. Spica’s class. Some told me that it was excessively difficult and a waste of time. They were all wrong. Mr. Spica loved art history, and loved teaching it. I think his favorite was modern performance art. He went to the Hammer and LACMA frequently. For those of us who were taking the AP Art History exam, he gave us a special review night and bought us pizza. One of the most endearing things about Mr. Spica was his grading. He always graded all of our papers with a green gel pen. He was never without it.

The last day of class crept up on us. Mr. Spica did the same thing every year: the class played “art history Jeopardy.” The grand prize was a Toulouse-Lautrec kaleidoscope. The players quickly came down to me (the girl who missed half the course) and four girls who had been in the course for its full length. It was intimidating. I kept forgetting to say “What is ____” and the girls would collectively groan because I got the right answer but didn’t say it right and Mr. Spica graciously allowed my faults in proper game show procedure.

Somehow, I won art history Jeopardy. I beat out the entire class after being there for just one semester. No matter how silly this may sound, the moment I won art history Jeopardy in Mr. Spica’s twelfth grade AP art history class was an incredible triumph for me. I loved art history in a way that my other classmates didn’t. I was good at it. This small triumph confirmed it. No one, especially not Mr. Spica, thought I would win art history Jeopardy, and why should they? I think Mr. Spica’s mind was changed as he ceremoniously handed me the grand prize and announced that I must be a “space alien” because I became so good at something I had no previous experience with.

Mr. Spica wrote in my yearbook in his favorite green pen. I was so proud to be his favorite space alien.

Mr. Spica coached girl’s tennis at my high school and would often go to UCLA’s tennis matches. I worked at Coffee Bean by UCLA, and it was here, a year or so after graduation, that I told him I received a 4 (out of 5) on the AP Art History exam and that I was majoring in art history in college. He wasn’t surprised.

That was the last time I saw him.

I said at the beginning, this post is about triumph and the people who believe in us. Mr. Spica was cautious to take a chance on letting me into his class, but eventually, he did, and because he believed in my potential, I grew exponentially in a field that, some years later, I can’t imagine not being in for the rest of my life. He introduced me to the basics of art history and critiqued my writing with unabashed severity, sometimes writing “No!!” with his green pen or enclosing portions of my essays with a large, underlined, green zero. I wish I could thank him for his honest critiques. And I wish even more that I could tell him of my latest “Jeopardy” moment of triumph: getting into graduate school.

I’ve had many supportive teachers (professors) since graduating high school. I will rave forever about how incredibly generous and wonderful the professors in UCLA’s art history department are. It’s no secret that UCLA has been one of the best experiences of my life, and that I credit them with teaching me how to be a scholar. It’s also no secret that I want to make art history my career. And, thanks to the wonderful training I received at UCLA and above all, the support from my family, friends, and professors, I’ll be able to.

Beginning Fall 2012, I will be studying at my dream program, which has what I believe is one of the strongest Early Modern art history programs in the country: the University of Delaware. I am so excited to begin my studies there, specializing in (of course) Italian Baroque art!

Knowledge is the light of the mind

I have a confession: for its many, terrible faults, I enjoyed reading “M.” It was enjoyable because most of the book was baffling to the point of being comedic, and although there are sporadic sentences of it that I genuinely did side with, it was on the whole, essentially a drawn out tabloid – full of assertions and conspiracy theories about Caravaggio’s sexuality and (my favorite part), his death. And for this, it was awful. I need to spoil the ending for you, because it should be made into a film starring Ethan Peck as Caravaggio and the Six Fingered Man from the Princess Bride as the principal villain. The start of the final chapter of “M” sets the stage for Caravaggio’s mysterious death:

Robb’s theory is that Caravaggio was killed by the Knights of Malta, and the death-by-fever on the beach story is a cleverly crafted (though slowly realized) cover up for murder. If you wish, you can preview most of the book, including this last conspiratorial chapter, on Google Books.

Anyway, “M” is not what I’d like to talk about. I felt that I should let you all know about Robb’s theory about Caravaggio’s death, because what I’d like to talk about is professional art historians.

The following is the first question and part of Robb’s answer in the interview I mentioned:

Caravaggio, St. John the Baptist, c. 1604.

As I read this, I thought how interesting that Robb condems art historians for not seeing the art in art, when he reads into Caravaggio’s art all sorts of juicy things that don’t exist within it. It’s far more reasonable to read into, say, Caravaggio’s St. John the Baptist that it is simply… St. John the Baptist — the “precedent, iconology” and religion behind it — than it is to make up some blast story about how John is somehow a come hither for its seventeenth century viewers. I also balk at the idea that art historians are “prisoners of their training and unlikely to give you any sense of why art matters.” I’m absolutely mind-boggled that Robb doesn’t realize that art historians study, write, research, and analyze for years on end because they are searching for meaning. Art historians are still historians — they just happen to specialize in art. No one would accuse “real” historians of being “prisoners to their training” and not giving us an idea of why the world is the way it is. It’s what historians do. Art historians can spend years studying one artist and still only scratch the surface of who they are, why their art is the way it is, and how their art speaks to us today. Caravaggio is a perfect example wherein historians have spent decades of their careers researching this man, his art, and the world that influenced him. Robb doesn’t give art historians enough credit for the work they’ve done and continue to do.

I also take issue with Robb’s perception of art historians’ descriptions of art as “guarded, timid, [and] inert.” If  our descriptions are such, it is only because we guard ourselves against being too liberal with describing what is physically on the canvas. (I’ll touch more on this in another portion of this interview’s Q&A below.) Describing art can easily become fantastical and turn into an analysis of something that isn’t actually there, or that is improper to consider given the constraints of the time in which the art was created. Historians have their own constraints — those of time and influence. They can’t just describe things in populist or exaggerated manners to get a rise out of people. It would be doing everyone a disservice. Accuracy is of the utmost importance.

There is so much wrong with this statement, I’m not sure where to begin. Let’s start with this: I’m an art historian, and I’m not just writing for other art historians. I’m not only refering to this website, either, but to all my work. If given the opportunity, I’d just sit in a park and read my papers to everyone. I’ve said it a thousand times: art history matters, even and especially outside of academia. No part of art history should be hidden away as we scholars converse amongst ourselves, hoarding our specialized knowledge from the outside world that might actually be interested in hearing what we have to say. People in the “real world,” perhaps now more than ever, are interested in art history. About half of readers of this website in fact, aren’t even art history professors or students, but the general public of all ages who are curious about art and its meaning.

Secondly, and this is something I seem to have to reiterate far too often, art history is an interdisciplinary field. Sure, it’s its “own” field, but one can’t study art history without studying history, religion, military history, political science, fashion, or film (depending on your area of focus). Thus, there’s not really a need to “[widen our] field of vision beyond the specialized milieu of art,” since it already is.

I certainly understand why the reviews of “M” on Amazon are so positive. “M” is entirely colloquial, which makes it a fairly quick and easy read. For the general world, quick and easy reads that are also educational are hard to come by.  Academic books are highly specialized and geared toward specific audiences. Sometimes, they are conversations between scholars, bickering amongst each other in drawn out, meticulously researched anthologies or books. Academics can’t necessarily afford to use popular language. Their publishers are often university presses or journals, and I just can’t imagine that something like Robb’s finished product would ever be acceptable to them for many reasons (especially trading quotation marks for italics).  I’ve always thought that sounding “academic” comes with experience, and yet this isn’t a bad thing. Perhaps our culture is simply not disciplined or patient enough to read something like Caravaggio: Realism, Rebellion, Reception or Caravaggio’s Secrets or even Helen Langdon’s (not-very-jargon-filled) biography of Caravaggio. Whatever it is, I don’t think Robb’s casually written book is helpful in provoking deep thought or educating with accuracy. And yet the “real world,” if Amazon is any indicator of popular belief, loves “M.”

Should we give up and just leave art to those who want to deliver it in real terms to real people?

I can’t.

While I sympathize with Robb for wanting to make art matter for the world, and in their terms, such a movement should absolutely come from the “professionals” — from museums and curators and art historians, because they know what they’re talking about. They didn’t undertake graduate study and years of research just to be brushed aside and brushed off  as “professionals,” as if they are somehow the Big Bad Wolf out to ruin art for everyone with their professional opinions and strange words. It’s a good thing that academics exist. Museums and educational programs and free public talks are good things. These serve to place art in the hands of the populous, with accurate historical context and analytical tools, and then say “Here. You’re equipped with the basic information you need. Now, go and make of art what you will.” But by all means, someone who knows nothing of history or worse, refuses to acknowledge it, should not be the one attempting to educate the masses about art of a historical time period. That will confuse everyone. I was confused after finishing “M.”I was writing my thesis, and if it wasn’t for the other reputable sources I had and my own convictions about historical accuracy and sticking to iconography, I would’ve  been an academic mess.

I wish the interview had stopped there, but it didn’t, and neither do my criticisms.

Continuing into the first question’s answer, Robb says:

Caravaggio, The Annunciation, c. 1608

This, I can agree with. I agree that by nature, artists insert themselves in some way, however small, into their work. Now, in “M,” Robb tended to find homosexual references in every last bit of exposed flesh of Caravaggio’s paintings — so, given this context, I should add that this visual autobiography artists create can’t be read into too much. Like most artists, Caravaggio had patrons who commissioned paintings that represent iconography in specific ways. (If  those original contract documents are available, they should always be referenced when analyzing a work of art lest we insert ourselves or our modern ways of thinking into our analysis.) It would also be scandalous to the point of ruin if paintings or sculptures that invited or glorified inappropriate activity were publicly and openly displayed in the rich, often pious households that Caravaggio painted for. This was, after all, seventeenth century Italy, where piety was fiercely being  guarded and reformed to fend against the Protestant movement that was gaining momentum. Art was a tool the Church used to enforce proper belief, and they would not undermine it by allowing art to be made and displayed that had ulterior meanings.  Paintings and sculptures were abandoned or not paid for if they failed to conform to the new edicts for art laid out by the Church.

The interview continues for several more questions, and that brings us to the final question that will be talked about here.

Robb begins his answer with an explanation of why he chose to call Caravaggio “M,” what contemporary sources said about Caravaggio, and his criminal record. Robb’s interpretation of Caravaggio and his violent nature is something that he thinks differentiates him from other writers.

I don’t think any art historians would characterize Caravaggio as a “murderous psychopath.” He certainly did have a “talent for trouble,” and this is speculated upon in many studies of his art and life. I’m not sure where Robb is getting the idea that art historians believe Caravaggio to be a “fairly conventional painter.” That hasn’t  been my experience with academic works about him. It’s also historically accurate to argue that Caravaggio’s violent behavior was acceptable for the time — to a degree. He once threw artichokes at a waiter’s face — that is probably not normal for seventeenth century Rome. But what is normal is Caravaggio constantly carrying a sword, or Caravaggio wearing fine noblemen’s clothing, because if history tells us anything, it’s that duels were standard practice in Baroque Rome and that men jealously guarded their honor. This doesn’t make Caravaggio any less interesting. So what if he engaged in duels like any other nobleman protecting his honor might? Nor does it make his life and art any less “disturbing,” because he obviously had some anger issues and dealt with them physically and (maybe) through his art.

There is a difference between “normalizing” a painter and placing him in the wider context of the world in which he lived, which is what art historians do. This isn’t an attempt to “deaden” Caravaggio or make his life any less significant or unique. Again, I doubt any art  historian would say that Caravaggio was just like everyone else. It’s impossible to deny that Caravaggio created an art form that was wholly new to Italy and revolutionized the aesthetics of devotion at home and abroad. As Helen Langdon, in her (much more historically accurate and indeed masterful) biography of Caravaggio, says:

Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, Borghese Gallery. Date disputed: either before 1606 or circa 1610.

Much has changed in the past decade since Robb’s book (and this interview) has been published. Art historians know more about Caravaggio, old ideas are being challenged, and new ideas are being formed. And despite the rise in Caravaggio’s popularity — Caravaggiomania, as Philip Sohm calls it — I believe that our work on Caravaggio’s art and life are still unfinished. In fact, as we learn more about Caravaggio, the mysteries only seem to increase because of all the things we still don’t know.

Returning again to the theme of art as autobiography, I’d like to end with the following words from David Stone, that, as I bury myself in studying Caravaggio more, I have increasingly come to appreciate as a wonderful description of Caravaggio the Painter. These words stem from an examination of Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath and of the self that Caravaggio constructed through his art:

Those words, from a professional art historian, from the academy, are not words that rob Caravaggio’s art of meaning. They imbue his art with even more meaning.

Leave art to the professional art historians, and let us become ever joyous “prisoners” of our research.

The College Art Association’s centennial conference was this year in Los Angeles, February 22-25. I initially planned to attend the entire conference, but certain events at my work made this impossible.

I attended on Saturday the 25th with my husband. We got there 30 minutes before registration opened, with me thinking that the lines for registration would be full of art and art history enthusiasts. … This was not so. We spent that 30 minutes peeking into the exhibition floor and walking around to see if anyone I knew might be there as early as us. (There wasn’t.) Once we registered – a quick and easy process – we had another 20 minutes or so before the exhibition floor actually opened. Luckily, our registration came with stylish tote bags full of literature, so we had fun looking at that. We went to the exhibition floor once it opened and it was surprisingly just the way I imagined it, with books and art supplies everywhere and people catching up with old friends and colleagues.

There were several highlights of the exhibition floor. The first, was that I picked up, held, leafed through, and attempted to purchase Sarah McPhee’s (Emory) new book Bernini’s Beloved about the life of Costanza, Bernini’s (most well known) mistress. Even though I knew it didn’t come out until April, I was still disappointed when the seller told me that particular copy was not for sale. I got to see it and pre-order it though! (You should, too. It’s gorgeous.) The second highlight was seeing what must’ve been a thousand page tome devoted solely to Caravaggio that I had never heard of. The book, Caravaggio and Pictorial Narrative: Dislocating the Istoria in Early Modern Painting (Studies in Baroque Art) by Lorenzo Pericolo, has wonderful color plates and essays that I’m sure are also wonderful, but I didn’t purchase it even though the retailer was offering $90 off its price. (Okay, according to Amazon, the book is 654 pages. It looks like a thousand.) The final highlight of the exhibition floor was purchasing Franco Mormando’s 2011 translation of the Life of Bernini, written by Bernini’s son Domenico, as well as Caravaggio and his Followers in Rome (2011) by David Franklin and Sebastian Schütze.

We attended the “Art & Architecture in Europe: 1600-1750” session, chaired by John Beldon Scott of the University of Iowa. It was fabulous. Two papers in particular stood out: the first, about  nepotism in the Vatican under Pope Paul V, whose cardinal nephew was Scipione Borghese. The second, about Carlo Rainaldi’s religiously and experientially sensitive architecture. I want to share with you what I learned from these papers. They got the gears in my mind going, so I’ll summarize the papers and intersperse said summaries with any thoughts I have about the issues at hand. (I will attempt to quote the presentations if I can’t summarize in a way that is sufficient or coherent. Please forgive any mistakes since my notes are unusually hard to read.)

Bernini, Bust of Scipione Borghese, 1632.

“A New Samson: Scipione Borghese and the Representation of Nepotism in the Vatican Palace” was presented by Karen J. Lloyd of Tulane University. Dr. Lloyd discussed the role of the cardinal nephew within the Baroque church and how it was allegorically described in art, specifically Guido Reni’s frescoes of Samson in the papal palace. (For those who don’t know, the cardinal nephew’s power was essentially only surpassed by the Pope. You can imagine that such a role comes with great power, great responsibility, and lots of eyes watching.) The Samson frescoes were made in conjunction with other frescoes that Paul V had commissioned in his own apartments, with scenes from the New Testament. Though in separate spaces, the frescoes should be read together create a picture of the Papacy. Paul V’s frescoes, with scenes from the New Testament, served as a visual reminder of papal power that has existed since Peter. Scenes includes the Ascension and Pentecost, because Paul V was elected a few days before the feast day of the Ascension, and was coronated on the feast day of the Pentecost. The message from his apartments is clear: His power comes from God, and he is part of a historic priestly class of divinely appointed men chosen to be the leaders of the Church. Just as Pope Paul V’s power comes from God, the cardinal nephew’s power comes from the Pope. The man who held this special post under Paul V, Scipione Borghese, wasn’t born a Borghese, but a member of the Caffarelli family, the son of Pope Paul V’s sister Ortensia and her husband Francesco Caffarelli. Scipione had to be adopted into the Borghese family to eventually support his position of power as the papal nephew. Scipione’s apartments, decorated with Reni’s Samson frescoes, were allegories of his role in the church. Like Samson, the cardinal nephew’s role in the church was to protect and defend the church, winning converts at every opportunity. Also like Samson, cardinal nephew’s strength to overcome temptation and achieve this goal comes from God.

Dr. Lloyd’s paper and examination of the frescoes was wonderfully done, but what I found most interesting was what wasn’t discussed. As Dr. Lloyd pointed out:

That the frescoes portray a perfect, righteous hero of old was fascinating, especially given what we know about Scipione Borghese. I’m currently reading Franco Mormando’s biography of Bernini (Bernini: His Life and His Rome), in which he discusses Cardinal Borghese’s many failings, including lavish living, indecent sexual activities with women and men alike, and so on. (In his notes on his 2011 translation of Domenico Bernini’s biography of his father, Mormando sums up Scipione’s lifestyle in one word: sybaritic.) While I’m skeptical as to how completely true these discussions of Scipione’s life are, I thought to myself how interesting this is in light of Reni’s paintings in the Vatican. Because, even if the Cardinal Nephew merely dabbled in illicit or inappropriate activities (versus being immersed in them, the way Mormando describes), then Reni’s depictions of the papal nephew’s glorious role, of obedience to the Church and to God, responsible for supporting the Pope, ensuring righteous doctrine in parishes, and so on, becomes deeply ironic.

The second paper that stood out to me was “Rhetoric and Narrative in the Architecture of Carlo Rainaldi,” presented by Jason Ciejka of Agnes Scott College. Every aspect of this paper was remarkable. What I found (and continue to find) most fascinating is the major role that art and architecture play in directing the worship and spiritual experiences of the laity, though this certainly isn’t limited to Rainaldi’s architecture.Carlo Rainaldi was an Italian Baroque architect. Rainaldi was schooled at the Jesuit university in Rome where he studied rhetoric.  He also pursued advanced disciplines such as philosophy and mathematics.   His education served him well in his career.  He was “responsive to the materials of his craft,” seeking to “amplify [the] spiritual and emotional responses of the faithful.”

Gesu e Maria, nave.

In 1678, Rainaldi  was commissioned to build the high altar in Gesu e Maria, a church in Rome on the Via del Corso. (Note: I had trouble finding high resolution photos for this post. A Google Image search returns many results that are smaller resolution.) This project evolved to eventually include the nave as well. The altar and its sculptures serve as an “emotional prompt [for the laity to] share in the astonishment and celebration of the Virgin’s coronation.” The way the sculpted figures turn to one another and outward to the nave certainly supports the idea of a conversation taking place, of the direction of thought and focus.

Santa Lorenzo in Lucina, nave.

The next example Dr. Ciejka discussed was the church of San Lorenzo in Lucina.  The altar of this church is a perfect harmony between painting and sculpture. Rainaldi was wise in choosing which marble he would use for this commission. The altarpiece, a Crucifixion by Guido Reni, has a limited earth-tone palette and the marble that Rainaldi chose complemented this. Rainaldi’s mixture of convex and conclave shapes in his architecture also complimented the altarpiece, echoing the bends in Christ’s back and his outstretched body. The high altar displays the “tension inherent in suffering.” Christ’s presence  in the church is enhanced through the ebb and flow of architecture to painting. He comes out into the sacred space, and the sacred space responds to that presence.

Santa Maria Campitelli, nave.

In his final example, La Chiesa di Santa Maria Campitelli, Dr. Ciejka saved the best for last. This church is one with a remarkable story. Tradition holds that on July 17, 524, a Roman noble woman known for helping the poor (and now a saint), Galla, was suddenly and excitedly called to by her servant. She came and a brilliant light appeared in the house. She sought the help of Pope John I. When they arrived to the mysterious light, all the bells in Rome rang at once. Angels appeared, carrying a Byzantine icon, and presented it to the Pope. The icon is thought to have saved Rome from a plague around 1656. In honor of this, Pope Alexander VII commissioned Rainaldi to design the existing church. Rainaldi’s finished work can be read as the visual, permanent, continual reenactment of this miraculous story. This was achieved through Rainaldi’s masterful use of light, architecture, and sculpture.  When the laity enter the church, it is dimly lit.  As worshipers move from the back of the church down the nave, they walk toward a great and wonderful light that is both real (through Rainaldi’s strategically placed windows) and sculpted (gilded gold) creating a tangible, dramatic, and consistence experience of awe and wonder for the worshipers.

Dr. Ciejka’s paper brought back memories of when I was in Italy’s many sacred spaces. One of the most striking memories I have is walking into a dim, candlelit church in Florence – I’m still not sure where exactly it was or who it was dedicated to – and being floored when what greeted me at the high altar was a lit, gilded, wonderful Crucifixion sculpture. The Crucifixion was the center of the church, the center of all focus and thought, commanding my attention and reverence. I imagine that the laity in San Lorenzo in Lucina experienced similar feelings.

Attending CAA was a momentous event for me (and I can only imagine how momentous it would be had I been able to attend for the full conference!) Even though I didn’t get to meet anyone new or any of my “scholarly heroes,” I enjoyed basking in the sweet, art historical words that accompanied the sessions. After being outside of academia proper for a year and a half, it was refreshing to be with and hear words from people who are of the same mind, who understand why art history is important and advocate its cause. Needless to say, I’m very excited to attend in future years.

A student of many religious schools of thought, in 1582 Akbar created the Divine Faith, a conglomerate of beliefs he held from the different faiths he studied including Hinduism, Christianity, and Zoroastrianism. The wider orthodox Muslim community revolted against this invention, so this new religion was quickly abandoned. It does, however, tell us that Akbar was a student of the world. (I should note that even with Akbar and his descendant’s religious curiosities, they still commissioned and utilized some fabulous Islamic structures, including mosques, and some historians would argue that Akbar never really gave up Islam.) A 2009 exhibition, From the Land of the Taj Mahal: Paintings for India’s Mughal Emperors, at the Nelson-Atkins showcased the Mughals artistic penchant for indulging their interests, moving art away from India’s historical religious themes and toward everyday subjects such as hunting and portraits:

Jahangir, whose name means “Conquerer of the World,” used art as a tool to express his power and exercise his ego. This is perhaps no where better seen than in the artistic conversation he had with Shah Abbas, the Shahanshah (king of kings) of Persia. The two men never met: their relationship in terms of political influence and greatness was explored through art. The relations between the two rulers was strained by conquest, and commissioned works can be viewed as peace, or at the least, appeasement offerings. In the early 17th century, the armies of Shah Abbas took Kandahar, a city under Jahangir’s jurisdiction that his ancestors fought to annex. Jahangir’s convoy to Isfahan, Shah Abbas’ capital, was unsuccessful, as were his military efforts. Jahangir and Shah Abbas were both responsible for wonderful commissions, displays of their respective power via architecture (Shah Abbas built a new capital, Isfahan) and painting (Akbar the Great and Jahangir’s patronage enabled the Italian Renaissance style to flourish under their respective reigns).

Abu’l Hassan, Jahangir’s Dream, c. 1618-1622. See it up close at the Google Art Project.

In Jahangir’s Dream, Jahangir and Shah Abbas are depicted standing on top of the world: together, they have power over and rule the world. The lion and the lamb at their feet, as well as their embrace, suggest a peaceful harmony between their kingdoms. Despite the depiction that they both rule over the world, Shah Abbas is lower than Jahangir, a sign of lesser status. Jahangir’s head is also in the center of the sun, which functions as a halo of sorts as well: he is the center of the world. Even though the painting shows a friendship between the two rulers, Shah Abbas humbles himself to Jahangir’s greatness. Abul’Hassan employed clever artistic devices to ensure that Jahangir’s greatness was obvious. As the viewing notes at the Google Art Project discuss,

Abu’l Hassan, Jahangir’s Dream, Detail, c. 1618-1622.

Jahangir’s Dream combines Indian and Western modes of representation with Islamic manuscript detailing (i.e., the borders and script contained in the painting).

Bichitr, Jahangir Preferring a Sufi sheikh to Kings, c. 1620. See it up close at the Google Art Project.

King James I (top) and the artist Bichitr

Unrelated to the art conversation with Shah Abbas, but nonetheless intriguing, Jahangir Preferring a Sufi sheikh to Kings was part of a miniature album that Jahangir commissioned. As mentioned, Jahangir was fascinated by Renaissance art. The cupids (which visually “sing” Jahangir’s praises) depicted combine the Western world with the Eastern world. As in Jahangir’s Dream, we once again see that Jahangir’s head is in the center of the sun and the moon; he is the center of the universe and the giver of light. The rulers represented in this miniature are painted in order of importance: Jahangir is obviously the most important. Closest to him, the most important in his court, is the Sufi sheikh (mystic). Jahangir regards the sheikh’s opinion and the inner life above the opinion of all other men, no matter what kingdoms they rule over. The Ottoman Sultan receives second rank importance. King James I of England (based on an existing portrait), is the third person of importance in Jahangir’s court. And now we come to the bottom left of the painting, where the artist Bichitr placed himself as the least of importance: a self-portrait of the artist in his own work was a bold move. Bichitr was not overly pompous, however. Jahangir is stepping on the artist’s signature, signifying that Bichitr knew his place.

In addition to commissioning art that glorified his reign, Jahangir was also a connoisseur of Western Renaissance art, especially Christian art, which the Jesuits introduced during their campaign in India. In 1580, Akbar requested that Jesuits come to his court. To quote Beach once more:

Akbar and Jahangir commissioned what we might call “standard” Western iconography, blended with Indian and Islamic elements. Below is a Virgin and Child dating to 1600-25. Mary is happily watching over an exploratory baby Jesus, who holds her hand and grasps flowers.

Virgin & Child, 1600-25

A yakshi on the gateway of the Great Stupa at Sanchi, a Buddhist mound meant for housing relics.

Mary also reminded me of Hindu yakshi, at left. Mary, to me, appears beautiful, full-figured, even voluptuous, as is common in Indian art. Her face is also distinctly Indian. The painting emits all the emotion we would expect from this tender scene and demonstrates Mughal artists’ ability to adapt and imitate Renaissance forms, best seen in the drapery of Mary’s clothes and the painting’s traditional composition.

 
Under Akbar the Great, the artist Keshav Des painted a wonderful St. Jerome that is a wonderful combination of Western, Indian, and Islamic art. As the MET describes, the Jerome, painted between 1580-85, was faithful to its model, an engraving by Italian artist Mario Cartaro.
 
 
 

Keshav Das, St. Jerome, 1580-85

Titian, St. Jerome, c. 1575.

Veronese, St. Jerome, c. 1580.

The brilliant borders around this painting are Islamic conventions and are perhaps lapis and gold leaf, which would not be uncommon materials in Mughal paintings. Were it not for the MET’s informational description, I think it would be difficult to gauge, on a purely observational basis, wether the Saint is sleeping, in prayer, or meditating on the wise words in the book he holds. St. Jerome translated the Hebrew Bible, so he is often depicted at study or with this holy volume. Great minds need their rest. I should also point out that this iconography, of saints under trees, of wise men under trees discovering great things, is reminiscent of one of India’s greatest religions: Buddhism. For it was under the bodhi tree that the Buddha became enlightened. Perhaps this painting places the Saint in a place of honor and wisdom, immediately recognizable to India’s citizens. (Indeed, if you look up images of bodhi trees, the tree in this St. Jerome seems to me a stylized version of said tree.)

This painting is drastically different than what contemporary European viewers would be used to: an emaciated, heavily bearded, penitent St. Jerome such as the ones painted by Titian in 1575 and Paolo Veronese in 1580. Compare it with these two artists, on the left and right respectively. What similarities are there between these three paintings? Differences? How does Keshav Das successfully or unsuccessfully integrate Renaissance elements?

The final Biblical painting I’d like us to observe is not quite Biblical as it is a double portrait… of Jahangir and Jesus. The portrait of Jahangir was done by the Mughal artist, Hashim, and Jesus, by Abu’l Hassan. The most interesting thing about this painting, and I think all that needs to be said about it, is that Jahangir is above Jesus with the motif we have seen now, thrice: Jahangir the giver of light, the axis mundi: the center of the world.

Jahangir and Jesus. Hashim, Jahangir, c. 1615-1620. Abu’l-Hasan, Jesus, c. 1610- 1620.

Jahangir left an incredible legacy of patronage: his son, Shah Jahan, commissioned something we all know: the Taj Mahal and (in the form we know it today) the Red Fort at Agra. Such monuments with great stories behind them demand their own space, so we will have to return to the Mughal Empire.

(UCLA students, do yourself a favor and take a course or three with Prof. Bierman-McKinney [Islamic art] and Prof. Brown [Indian art]. UCLA’s courses are second to none when it comes to Indian & Islamic art and they could not get rid of me.)

Caravaggista.com is celebrating this romantic day by showcasing a few of art history’s most famous faces, couples, and love scenes:

Titian, Venus of Urbino, detail, 1538

Titian, Venus of Urbino, 1538

Bernini, Portrait of Costanza Bonarelli, 1636–38. Constanza was Bernini's lover.

Vermeer, The Love Letter, c. 1669.

Canova, Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss, detail, 1787-1793.

Fragonard, The Stolen Kiss, 1780s

Fragonard, The Fountain of Love, c. 1785

Renoir, La Promenade, 1870.

Klimt, The Kiss, 1907-8.

Love is in the air!

What are your favorite romantic artworks?

If you’d like to learn more about these romantic pieces, visit the Entry Bibliographies page.

Head over to WTF Art History to see more romantic images, and to arthistoryx to see artists & their muses!

Eugenio Cajés, The Triumph of the Cross, c. 1613 - 1634

One dangerous difference between the Church’s doctrine and Luther’s was their respective teaching on heaven. To the Church, believers would enter heaven after purgatory, after a second chance at redemption and absolution. Heaven was a celestial place that could not be fathomed. It existed in the hope of life everlasting. And, most importantly, heaven itself and the thought of it were sources of undying joy.

How does this differ from Luther? Luther, ever bold in his criticisms of the Church, wrote in one of his books of sermons:

In this one small paragraph, Luther undermines a large portion of Catholic belief: heaven is not a place that “others” (saints) can help believers earn their way into. Luther expresses sorrow for those abiding by the teachings of the Pope, for although they are Christians, they misunderstand heaven and will die unhappy. Why? Because these Christians don’t understand one of the key tenets of the Gospel, one that Christ discussed frequently on earth: the “the kingdom of heaven.” This kingdom, heaven itself, is a place that can and should be found and experienced here on earth:

Luther once again distinguishes his doctrine from Catholic doctrine. As I briefly mentioned, for the Church, heaven was the hope and wellspring of happiness for the laity. If heaven was to be experienced here on earth, there would be no need for intercession of the saints nor would there be anything majestic to look forward to, to hope for, in the impoverished and difficult lives that the majority of the populous experienced in Renaissance and Baroque Italy.

For the poor and devout populous, churches functioned as escapes from the often dreary existences that many parishioners led outside these sacred walls. Heavenly art became glorious and overwhelming. Laity would enter their churches, look up to the ceiling, and be reminded of the majestic celestial home that awaited them. Artists employed trompe l’oeil – tricks of the eye – to give viewers the sense that their church ceiling, dome, or cupola was literally opening up to reveal the heavens. The heavenly realm became a key proponent of worshippers’ experience as they entered and ambulated churches. Churches functioned as a visual reminders of doctrine, salvation, and heroic stories told in the Scriptures and handed down through generations. Upon leaving these sacred spaces and re-entering the difficulty, noise, and poverty of the outside world, the laity were meant to have hopeful hearts and renewed spirits, marveling at and meditating on what was displayed in the art that they were surrounded by.

Meditating on the heavens was encouraged for the joy that everlasting life brought. Heaven itself was a place of happiness, as was the mere thought of heaven. Life was meant to continue forever for the believer, and they could rest in the hope of heaven – that the sorrows of this world would fall by the wayside, seemingly insignificant to the glory that awaited them. Life would continue in joy:

How could artists portray joy and joy within a place that is beyond comprehension? Further complicating their task is that the body of heaven itself is not just incomprehensible, but so is God:

Andrea Pozzo, Apotheosis of St. Ignatius, late 1600s, Chiesa di Sant'Ignazio, Rome, Italy. Click image for larger view.

Artists tackled the problem of the celestial realm and celestial bodies in wondrous ways. Andrea Pozzo and the rest of the Dynamic Baroque fresco painters such as Pietro da Cortona represented heaven as a light-filled, “airy,” space, surrounded by sky, populated with robed saints. Trompe l’oeil allowed these artists to give the viewer the illusion that heaven was descending on, or could be seen through, the ceiling of their churches. Heaven wasn’t burdened with heavy palettes, shrouded in darkness. It was clearly visible to all, and the majesty of the sight above enlists the most powerful feeling of glee,

El Greco, The Burial of the County of Orgaz, 1586-1588

For El Greco, heaven was an ethereal realm punctured with light and filled with ghostly figures. El Greco relied on light, abstraction and liquid-like movement across the composition to portray even the slightest notion of heaven, enabling the viewer’s imagination to soar with the thought of what heaven might be like. (You can read more about heaven meeting earth in El Greco’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz here.)

For the Venetian master Tintoretto, heaven was not just painted; conceptualizing it was the highlight of his career, painting Paradise on massive scale canvas, the likes of which have not been matched. In fact, when just a concept of the painting was revealed,

Tintoretto’s masterpiece is overwhelming in scale and subject. Rightfully so, for it represents more than heaven. Being in the Sala Maggiore Consiglio, where the Doge and his tribune would gather, the painting is also a symbol of the divine right and blessedness of the Venetian Republic. ¹ Paradise replaced a Glorification of the Virgin by Guariento that hung in the same spot until it was destroyed by a fire in 1577. Paradise focuses on Christ,  the giver of light. The heavens literally revolve around him: the multitude of angelic figures and saints overwhelm the canvas in a circle around the source of light, Christ, and the glorified Mary. F.P.B. Osmaston wrote of the composition:

Tintoretto achieved something remarkable with this painting, not only in technical skill, but in theological significance. His Paradise, commands the artistic attention of the Sala and the eyes of all who enter. In the gilded and ornate Sala, viewers think not of the watery world that waits for them outside; they think of the glorious heavens that wait for them above. (For a detailed and excellent examination of Tintoretto’s Paradise, please click through to read The Paradise of Tintoretto by F.P.B. Osmaston.)

I hope this brief exploration has explained how heaven was perceived and represented in sixteenth and seventeenth century Catholic Italy, and why the Church made the artistic choices they did in that time. Art was a way to visually represent newly standardized Catholic doctrine, as well as a way to bring a sense of peace, awe, and wonder to all viewers.

¹Thomas Worthen, “Tintoretto’s Paintings for the Banco del Sacramento in S. Margherita,” The Art Bulletin , Vol. 78, No. 4 (Dec., 1996), pp. 707-732.

For those of you who have been reading this site for at least a week, you’ll notice that the website’s layout is completely different than it was a week ago. My husband and I (but mostly him!) spent much of the weekend getting this new chocolatey, Baroque-y template functional and aesthetic for your reading pleasure. The image at the top of the page is a detail from Caravaggio’s (of course) The Raising of Lazarus from 1609. There is also search bar at the top of the page, and the sidebar contains links to pages on the site, what I’m currently reading, and archives. I think the color scheme adds an undefinable quality of something to images contained within posts, and I also enjoy the frilly little frames on the side bar. One thing we fixed over the weekend that wasn’t previously functioning correctly is that if you click on images contained within a post, they will now open up to full size on the screen. Huzzah! If you notice any bugs or have any suggestions, let me know.

Caravaggio, The Raising of Lazarus, 1609

In addition to layout change, I added the following new or modified pages to the site:

• A new page for those of you just getting started on the site.
• A revised page about the purpose of and story behind the site.
• A revised “About the Author” page
• FAQs
• The Entry Bibliographies page is up to date.

Enjoy!