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

Caravaggio, The Taking of Christ, detail of self portrait

In her biography of Caravaggio, Helen Langdon refers to Caravaggio’s “evangelical call to young artists,”¹ welcoming and encouraging them to pursue the way of his new and modern style. Historical documents paint a different picture, of a Caravaggio who fiercely guarded his style from imitators and frequently retaliated with violence or polemical paintings when artists copied his style or even received a commission he wanted. These two things, Caravaggio recruiting others to his new art, and Caravaggio’s protective nature, seem diametrically opposed. And yet, in art history, discussion abounds about Caravaggio the Leader, Caravaggio who consciously created this great movement of a new art, Caravaggio who welcomed others to emulate what he had created.

I don’t see Caravaggio as the conscious leader of a great movement. Perhaps this is an unconventional or unpopular viewpoint. There’s no denying that his art had an unprecedented  impact on the Roman art world,  but it’s difficult for me to subscribe to the idea that Caravaggio was willing to share his glory with others by allowing them to share in the style he had worked so hard to create. Rather, once Caravaggio’s art became “The Art” to have,  it behooved other artists to emulate him. His contemporaries would naturally be drawn to copy his style and to attempt to arrive at what made him great.

When twenty-one year old Caravaggio arrived in Rome in 1592, he, like many artists before him, arrived a poor man with big dreams. He had received an inheritance, but, for reasons we don’t know, this money was basically gone by the time he arrived in the Eternal City.² He began working for a priest, Pandolfo Pucci, an arrangement which may have been set up for Caravaggio by the powerful Colonna family. (Pucci was Pope Sixtus V’s sister’s steward, and when the pope died, she went to live in the Palazzo Colonna.) Caravaggio was unhappy in Pucci’s household and didn’t have the artistic freedom he desired. He was treated poorly (he complained his only food was salad and as such his nickname for Pucci was Monsignor Insalata) and during his stay he was made to paint copies of devotional pictures. When his patron was away, Caravaggio was “reduced to painting pictures for sale, of humble subjects beneath the dignity of Roman figure painters, and often the speciality of artists from Northern Europe.”³

Unfulfilled, Caravaggio left Pucci’s household and hopped between a number of Roman studios, including Lorenzo Siciliano’s studio where he met his lifelong friend, Mario Minniti. He and Mario still longed for more than what Rome’s studios placed them in, and, “[a]llies in hardship, both dissatisfied, spurred on by the spirit of emulation, they determined to win their independence and to aim higher and for some time (though it is not at all clear exactly when) they lived together.”⁴

Caravaggio continued to move between Rome’s studios and was consistently unhappy with their restrictive artistic environments. He needed to be independent, and attempting to make it in the large world of Roman art was difficult. Eventually, Caravaggio began working with an art dealer, Costantino Spata. Spata introduced Caravaggio and his art to the man who would become one of his most important patrons and help skyrocket Caravaggio to a life of fame and demand: Cardinal Francesco Del Monte. It was for Del Monte and his social circle that Caravaggio painted some of his most famous early works, lighthearted scenes of trickery and myth and music. Important as these early works were for Caravaggio (and are for us today), I must echo Walter Friedlaender’s sentiments from Caravaggio Studies:

These early  genre pictures were the catalyst that brought about Caravaggio’s truest talent: displaying devotional scenes with mesmerising quality. Caravaggio clearly continued to desire increasingly greater commissions for increasingly powerful patrons, most of whom were so thrilled with Caravaggio’s works that once they commissioned his art, they also became his lifelong advocates and protectors. I want to point out that though Caravaggio’s dedication to devotional scenes can be seen as a product of the time in which he lived, where churches and other religious organizations were commissioning artwork left and right, I also think his dedication to revolutionizing religious imagery was more than simply a quest for money, fame, or merely because he received continual commissions from princes of the Church. Plenty of patrons in Tridentine Italy were still commissioning mythological albeit moral scenes, and Caravaggio himself painted the rare mythological scene or two. Once Caravaggio found his niche, he didn’t turn back. He was a man dedicated to his art who continually rethought religious scenes and told these stories on a new and personal level.

Nowhere can his dedication to his art be seen better than in his inclusion of himself in many of his paintings. Caravaggio painted himself many times throughout his career, including multiple times as an observer in religious scenes. His portrait was a mark of pride in his work, a stamp, an immediate signifier that Michelangelo da Caravaggio made this. His inclusion of himself in religious scenes also has religious and artistic precedent⁶, but there’s one particular interpretation that I would like to focus on.

Caravaggio, The Taking of Christ, c. 1602

In Caravaggio’s Taking of Christ, Caravaggio can be seen  on the far right of the painting, holding up a lantern to illuminate the scene and looking at the activity before him with fascination. Inserting oneself into one’s paintings wasn’t unheard of and can be read as a sort of signature⁷; however, Caravaggio’s inclusion of himself within the painting is also in line with popular seventeenth century devotional practices. Just as Caravaggio placed himself in this scene of Christ’s Passion, so too should the faithful. This is part of Caravaggio’s genius: he, so prone to pop up in Roman streets and have violence follow, was now a participant in the Taking. But could the lantern that he holds up be more than just an object of illumination for the scene?

Langdon observes that in most representations of this scene, the lantern lies on the ground, dropped in the commotion.

Langdon suggests that Caravaggio’s lantern serves a greater purpose than illuminating the scene. His presence is an invitation for the next generation of artists to follow in his footsteps and embrace his style of unrelenting naturalism. The reading is clever and for that I admire it. I don’t, however, think this reading is the ideal analysis for this painting — and maybe it isn’t even correct. Regardless, it does raise the bigger question of Caravaggio the Leader.

As has been discussed, Caravaggio fiercely valued his independence and his reputation and spent several years building up his reputation in Rome, leaving studios when the work was not ambitious enough or was demeaning, until he came to a point where he had powerful patrons. Even after this, he continued to desire bigger and better commissions, evidenced by his pining for a Papal commission (which he finally, after years, received — an altarpiece that no longer hangs in the Vatican). He he wasn’t afraid to challenge visual traditions, rethink vision as a form of devotion, or portray events the way his mind thought them best seen. There are many examples of this, including Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin, his first Raising of Lazarus in which he painted a decaying corpse from life (now destroyed by his own hand⁹), and his first St. Matthew and the Angel. Caravaggio created a new art which attracted a large following in Rome and abroad — and he was aware of the demand for and impact of his art.

He had always been wary of artists who got too close to him stylistically, but once he was one of Rome’s premiere artists, he became increasingly protective of his style. He did count Zuccaro and others among Rome’s famous pre-Baroque artists as “good” artists (whatever his motives), and at the same time he lashed out against those who arrived close to his style and his humble interpretations. His style set him apart. Why would he openly encourage others to copy him, when his style and interpretations were what set him apart in Rome’s competitive art world?

Caravaggio was clearly some type of leader. He was a leader in the sense that he forged a new artistic path and others followed, whether he liked it or not. He never founded a workshop or a school.¹⁰ He had many friends, and many more artists looked up to him. He certainly counted a number of the Roman Caravaggisti as his friends, and they frequently went to Rome’s taverns, borrowed props from each other, and sometimes got into trouble together. Caravaggio had great animosity toward a few of those who would infringe on his style, but with others, art together was playful competition. Perhaps Caravaggio didn’t feel threatened by some of these artists, knowing they didn’t have the connections he did to surpass him in greatness, or knowing that they dabbled in other modes of representation.¹¹ I’m not sure. Whatever his reasons for liking some Caravaggisti and despising others, I think what Caravaggio appreciated more than anything in his circle was good art. He counted very few of the artists in Rome as good artists, as Creighton E. Gilbert has said:

The trial Gilbert is referring to is the 1603 trial where Caravaggio was sued for libel by one of the Caravaggisti, Giovanni Baglione.¹³ Caravaggio’s testimony focused mostly on who created good art and less on defending his innocence. He also probably blatantly lied about being associated with his closest friends, also involved in the suit. The artists Caravaggio lists as good artists do not approach his style and were immensely popular, established Roman artists well before the time that Caravaggio came to Rome.

Guido Reni, Crucifixion of St. Peter, c. 1604-5

Some artists were clear threats, such as Annibale Carracci. No one posed a greater threat than Guido Reni. Reni, a Bolognese artist, was present in Rome by 1601 and had close ties with Cavalier d’Arpino (in whose studio a young Caravaggio spent some time in). d’Arpino had big plans for Reni, and it has been suggested that d’Arpino meant to provoke Caravaggio by bringing Reni to Rome.¹⁴ He promised Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini that Reni would “transform himself into Caravaggio and would paint the picture [of the Crucifixion of St. Peter] in Caravaggio’s dark and driven manner [quella maniera cacciata e scura].”¹⁵ And transform into Caravaggio he did. Reni used Caravaggio’s painting of the same subject as inspiration, which enraged Caravaggio to the point that he threatened Reni’s life, forcing Reni to flee Rome for some time.¹⁶ The skill that Reni displayed with his St. Peter — so immediately beloved for its lyricism — made him an imminent threat to everything Caravaggio had made for himself and of himself. This near-violent episode with Reni is met with some skepticism by scholars¹⁷, but its existence is important nonetheless in presenting a fairly tangible (if problematic) idea of what Caravaggio thought about plagiarism, and what Rome’s patrons thought of other artists’ abilities.

Perhaps it was the best thing for his fame, that,  in 1606, Caravaggio was forced to flee Rome and was welcomed and celebrated as a renowned artist in every place he went — Naples, Sicily, Malta. His art attracted and received an international audience during his exile, and true to his nature, Caravaggio was still protective as ever. His patrons longed for his presence back in Rome, and longed even more for his art. With Caravaggio’s departure, the artistic world in Rome had a void it needed filled, and Caravaggio wasn’t there to defend his art:

Alienated and unable to defend his art in person, Caravaggio’s powerful style was left undefended for Rome’s artists to profit from. What would Caravaggio have thought, coming back to his beloved Rome alive in the late summer of 1610, seeing his style plagiarised? How would his career have progressed? Would he be welcomed as an internationally famous star, or welcomed with trepidation and uncertainty about what to do next? I wonder if he would have been emotionally prepared for his homecoming. I wonder if he would have been welcomed with a lot of pomp, or if he would be forever branded as Caravaggio who murdered someone but was pardoned four years later — an unpredictable, unbalanced genius. And yet, when Caravaggio was in the South of Italy, his biographers there consistently described him as mad. Did leaving everything he had worked for — despite all his success in the south — drive him over the edge? If it did, I think he reached his breaking point physically and emotionally by the time he reached Port’Ercole and realized that the ship he was on had sailed off with his possessions. He needed the paintings on the boat to gift to Cardinal Nephew Scipione Borghese, thus procuring  a warm welcome and a pardon, and among them were some of his most personal works, including his Borghese David with the Head of Goliath which he probably completed earlier in 1610. One story says that Caravaggio chased after the boat — nearly 100km upstream — running in the hot beach, surrounded by nothing but rock and wave, desperate to get his paintings back, and in exerting all of his energy and health chasing the wind, Caravaggio died.

To his death, Caravaggio remained protective of his art. During his exile, his patrons continued to hope that maybe soon he would return to them, but he never did. Upon his return, his style would have responded again, as it had so effortlessly ebbed and flowed with the different regions he visited, responding to their wealth, spirituality, poverty, sickness, and crowds, and he perhaps would have continued into further greatness. Caravaggio didn’t have many material possessions (we know this from inventories taken of his belongings), but he did have one thing that he prized above all else and that was wholly his own: his art.

Caravaggio was a revolutionary and an innovator whose art breathed new life into the aesthetics and mechanics of Catholic devotion. He was not leader or a mentor who welcomed or recruited others to copy what was his. Caravaggio was simply a man “of a fantastic humor … bizarre”¹⁹ and above all, a good man and painter “who [could] perform well in his art and … paint well and imitate natural things well.”²⁰

Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: Art History, Artistic Intention, Baroque Art, Caravaggio, Rome, Sacred Art

In the March 2012 issue of the Art Bulletin, Notes From the Field discusses anthropomorphism. What is it? Is it a good term, or bad? Does it make sense in the modern world? Is it in the eye of the beholder, or can we define it in concrete terms? I am not a distinguished professor (if I can state the obvious), but I nevertheless am compelled to respond to some of the explanations presented.

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.

Tags: Academia, Anthropomorphism, Art Bulletin, Art History, Art Theory, Artistic Intention