Real Clear Arts

Judith H. Dobrzynski on Culture

Judith H. Dobrzynski

Get Thee to Cleveland For a Great Show

Lucky Cleveland! Since Nov. 18, residents and visitors to the Cleveland Museum of Art have been able to see six tapestries, woven in the mid 1570s, that have been under wraps, locked away, almost ever since then. For some 100 years, at least, they’ve been in the store rooms of the Uffizi Galery and before that in the Palazzo Vecchio Medici store rooms.

Catherine de’ Medici

They are the Valois tapestries, commissioned by Catherine de’ Medici after her husband, Francois I, died and left her queen mother and regent (for a while). Catherine, of course, knew how to use art to project power–and the weavings commemorate the court festivals she staged to project the power of France’s ruling family.  Over the years, they had faded, been damaged by bugs, and tarnished–they’re laden with gold and silver threads–by time.

But in recent years, the American-based Friends of the Uffizi Gallery (sister to the Italian organization) stepped in to fund the conservation of the  tapestries. When they (well, six of eight) were ready to be shown, Cleveland director William Griswold asked Uffizi director Eike Schmidt for them, and he got them. The Cleveland museum gathered related art works–such as hard-stone objects collected by Catherine and portraits of her, her son Henri II, and other paintings–and mounted an exhibition called Renaissance Splendor: Catherine de’ Medici’s Valois Tapestries.

I reviewed the exhibition for The Wall Street Journal, and it was published in yesterday’s paper. Here are a few excerpts:

In each one, life-size kings, princes, princesses and courtiers occupy a corner of the foreground. Based on drawings by court portraitist François Clouet and artists in his circle, many of these characters make eye contact with the viewer. It’s as if they are inviting visitors into the grand scenes taking place behind them, which use drawings by Antoine Caron and written records of the “magnificences” as inspiration.

So…In “Whale,” a marvelous mechanical sea monster, with unlikely spouts, a pug nose and whiskers more suited to a catfish, noses up to a barge where a tiny Catherine, dressed in black widow’s garb, is watching the show. And in “Elephant,” soldiers secure the mechanical animal, festooned with feathers, which carries a crowd of clamoring soldiers at war with a group below….

…the tapestries are busy with charming details that will draw in even casual visitors. To name just a few: the cute château in “Fontainebleau” set amid make-believe mountains; the sun-kissed allée in “Polish Ambassadors”; the amusing mermaids afloat on a turtle in “Whale.” The borders, meanwhile, are beautifully laden flowers and plants, interspersed with fish, monkeys, deer and other animals—even a tiny snail in the lower border of “Tournament.”

I’ll post a two of them here (from the CMA)–“Whale” and “Elephant” and hope you will see the show if you can.

The Things You Find Behind Doors, Like A Velazquez

In recent days, the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston has rehung a painting called Kitchen Maid (c. 1620) with a new label, “attributed to Velazquez.” The work used to hang in its decorative arts mansion, Rienzi, partially blocked by a door! At that point, it was labeled “in the style of Diego Velázquez.” It was donated to the museum by Carroll Sterling Masterson and Harris Masterson III in 1955, and later when then donated their home–Rienzi–it remained behind the door.

The change was, of course, precipitated by a lot of work, as I outlined in an article for The Art Newspaper.  It was published several days ago, but I’ve been far away, in Ethiopia, on a vacation and am just catching up now.

Here’s an excerpt from my article:

This reattribution—giving the museum its first painting by the Spanish master—is the result of new conservation and research by the institution’s chief paintings conservator, Zahira Bomford, a Velázquez specialist who thought that the face in particular “had a beautiful quality” and might be by the artist. When she removed layers of wax, resin and repainting that marred the painting and completed various technical studies, she and others at the museum became convinced that her hunch was true.

…The Houston painting seems to be a cropped version or a fragment of Kitchen Scene (1618-22) by Velázquez, owned by the Art Institute of Chicago, and also shares components with his Kitchen Maid with the Supper at Emmaus(around 1617-18) at the National Gallery of Ireland in Dublin. Bomford says that the head and upper torso coincide in the Houston and Chicago paintings, for example, and that some pieces of crockery match those in the Dublin painting. Some elements in these works also appear in other paintings—for instance, the crockery is seen in his Two Young Men Eating at a Humble Table (1622) at Apsley House in London.

Equally important, Bomford’s work lends credence to the recent theory that Velazquez “used “manual copying aids”, or cartoons, to create many of his works. But that was not the case, she concludes, “in the generation of his most sublime images”, such as Las Meninas (1656).” She elaborates on that in an article recently published in the Colnaghi Studies Journal.

Photo Credit: Courtesy of MFAH

 

Art Reviews–Or Observations–That Go Beyond

People regularly complain that art criticism displays an off-putting insider-y tone, complete with jargon–but that’s not what I am about to talk about here. I’m going to mention a few display touches and the like that I notice, when they are good, at exhibitions that I review but rarely–for space reasons–have the opportunity to write about.

The most recent case was at the Toledo Museum of Art, which I visited to see Frans Hals Portraits: A Family Reunion. My review of that exhibit, which reunites three paintings (one purchase by the Toledo museum in 2011, at left) that were split from one canvas by the end of the 18th century, was published in the Oct. 22 issue of The Wall Street Journal. Here are a key paragraphs explaining the show.

Then the discoveries, presented here for the first time, began. Belgian conservators—cleaning their painting for this exhibition—discovered the presence of about half of a girl on the far right of their canvas who had been painted over. Adding to the excitement, her lace collar matched a fragment visible in “Head of a Boy,” cementing his presence as part of this family portrait. Cleaning also revealed two hems on the left of the Belgian work that complete the dresses of two girls on the right of the Toledo painting—leaving no doubt that these paintings were all once part of a whole [see first picture below].

…Hung here so that each work occupies the same place it would have in the intact work, the paintings show the great portraitist at his best. Rather than depict the sitters looking at the viewer—only three of the 14 figures stare out, one being the obviously proud patriarch—Hals creates a lively scene of merry faces, twinkling eyes, and dynamic hand gestures that signal family interactions….he deploys a more controlled style of brushwork than the thick, bold strokes that made many of his portraits famous, but it’s never stilted.

…The three fragments account for 12 children, but what of the other two, both girls? They must have occupied the lost, lower-right corner. In Toledo, a freestanding panel illustrates an educated possibility: a sitting girl with a youngster on her lap [see bottom picture].

Other artworks by Hals and a few others, plus a few Dutch decorative art objects, form the core of this exhibition.

However, Toledo has also given visitors two other galleries that “wrap” the core–one interrogating the meaning of family with other family-related artworks from the museum’s permanent collection and the other other, a family activity room inviting visitors to reflect on the meaning of family. Both were superfluous for me, but maybe I’m not the target audience.

Further, they didn’t really detract from the core because of those touches I referenced above. Here are some of them:

  • The Hals and the other Dutch art was installed in galleries painted a deep red (the beating heart!), picking up small touches in some of Hals’s paintings; while the “wraps” were installed in white galleries.
  • As visitors come around a corner from the first “wrap” gallery, they get a glimpse–but just a glimpse– of the reconstructed painting at the center.
  • Other, equally appropriate sight lines in the core exhibit.
  • There are no didactics on the wall where the reconstructed painting (that is–the three paintings, aligned as one work) hangs.
  • A nice long bench sits before the reconstructed painting–for contemplation–with nothing between you and the art.
  • The didactics–which explain much of what I have excerpted from y review–are mounted on a long, freestanding panel behind the bench. There you’ll find information covering these topics: bringing the pieces back together; possible explanations for why it was cut apart; the secrets new research revealed; the Van Campen family; a proposed reconstruction.

Occasionally, I do get a chance to mention such things–as I did in July, with my review of Spain: 500 Years of Spanish Painting From the Museums of Madrid at the San Antonio Museum of Art–briefly. Then, I wrote “the curators accomplished a lot with 43 paintings, which are hung with great care for sightlines, echoes and engaging juxtapositions.”

Did everyone notice these (and there were probably others) niceties? It’s doubtful–but I believe that museum-goers appreciate them intuitively. And we appreciate them.

I hope you will read my review to learn about the fascinating origin story for the Toledo exhibit.

Photo Credits: Top and bottom, Toledo Museum of Art; middle, me

 

Glenstone: It’s Wonderful, Marvelous. BUT

Glenstone, the private museum owned and operated by Mitchell and Emily Wei Rales, opened to the public on Oct. 4–heralded by a beautifully choreographed  campaign of press. There were preview articles and reviews, accompanied in all likelihood by more to come in other publications. I was one of the lucky one who visited Glenstone, in Potomac, Md., and in many ways it is an excellent example of a private museum.

Let’s do the positive first. The 260 acres of land that surround the museum are a near-perfect setting. Fall had not yet arrived, so my visit was between seasons, and I can imagine how lovely it will look like at peak autumn, winter, spring and summer. Every now and then, there’s a sculpture–not too many, not too few–rewarding those who walk around the grounds. I was particularly taken by Tony Smith’s Smug (at left).

The Pavilions–containing 204,000 sq. ft., including 59,000 sq. ft. of gallery space–are well-proportioned inside and out and allow natural lighting of the art. The design leaves room for expansion (unlike those of some other museum architects). And the gallery spaces have a nice rhythm, both in size and placement.

They surround a water court of water lilies that is quite beautiful (at right).

The art installations, being minimalist, are spare and allow the slow looking the Raleses advocate. Labels are off to the side; visitors can easily walk around sculpture pieces, large pieces, like Brice Marden’s Moss Sutra with the Seasons, have plenty of room to breathe.

When it comes to amenities, the Raleses seem to have thought of everything–two cafes, an outdoor patio, wifi, three comfortable benches designed by Martin Puryear, maps of the galleries and the grounds, a “Glenstone Field Guide” and so on.

My visit was wonderful. So what’s wrong? There is one problem that can be fixed–and maybe a fix is already in the works. On the grounds, there is not enough way-finding devices. When I was there, several people were asking frequently stopping to ask directions of the guides posted in a few places along the way, and still getting confused. Some people did not understand, or see, the paths to sculptures by Serra and Koons, and they accidentally skipped them. (At first, I chose the wrong path at that juncture, but realized my mistake in enough time to correct that). Just a few more signs, even small ones, or other way-finding aids would help people explore.

The second issue I have applies only to people who spend a lot of time in the art world–it’s about the collection itself. The Raleses concentrated on well-established artists and said they collected in depth. But in this first installation, at least, there’s just one piece by Marden, for example (granted, it is a commission, but like some of his other work), and two by Roni Horn, for instance. So people do not see that depth.

Further, because the artists are so well known, there are few surprises. Cy Twombly’s sculptures (at left) are one; I am hard-pressed to recall another. I have seen this art–or pieces much like almost all of them–before, over the last many years.

That means, for me at least, that one visit to Glenstone was wonderful, but not enough to get me back anytime soon. Yes, I know the exhibitions will change, but will there be surprises?

Even so, I congratulate the Raleses on Glenstone–it is a gift to the art-loving public.

 

 

This May Be the Best Monument to Caesar Augustus

Reputedly, the last public words of Caesar Augustus (63 B.C.-A.D. 14) were “Behold, I found Rome of clay, and leave her to you of marble.” Augustus also left us a magnificent, exquisitely carved cameo whose double-narrative all but deifies him. It is the Gemma Augustea in the collection of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, which I visited last spring.

Since it is an unequivocal masterpiece, The Wall Street Journal let me write about it for its Masterpiece column. Headlined A Man Among Gods, my piece was published in the  Sept. 22 edition..

The Gemma has three things going for it, any one of which might catapult it into the realm of masterpieces. First, Augustus, who was a great patron of the arts, probably commissioned it and just as probably owned it. Its later provenance–in the hands of Rudolph II, for example, is equally impressive. Second, it is one of the finest cameos ever created–with sharply delineated details (feathers, muscles and toenails) and diaphanous garments, among other features–in low relief on a piece of onyx no thicker than 1/2 inch. It was possibly made by the renowned Greek master carver Dioskourides, who was active late first century B.C. and had created Augustus’s personal seal, or (more likely, given its date of 9-12 A.D.) by one of his sons or extremely good disciples. The characters and story of the piece is by no means a simple one, either. And third, it is (as I wrote) “surely the finest and almost the largest cameo that survives from antiquity.” The Louvre owns one a bit larger–the Grand Camee de France–but the quality does not compare.

Detail

Here’s how the Gemma’s story is told in two frieze-like registers, from my column:

In the upper level, Roma, the goddess of Rome, sits at the center on her throne in a relaxed pose, her eyes meeting those of Augustus, enthroned just to the right. Their knees almost touch. Augustus, his chiseled face in profile and his muscled body naked from the waist up, holds in his right hand a lituus, a crooked wand used by augurs for divination. Behind him is Oikoumene, a goddess who personified the civilized world, about to place a military wreath known as a corona civica on his head. Below his throne is an eagle, symbol of Jupiter, touched by the hem of Augustus’ garment. Further to the right are Tellus Italiae, a goddess personifying Italy in all its fecundity, who holds a cornucopia, and Oceanus, god of the sea. …

Thickness of the onyx

The left half of the upper register carries a different but equally potent message. Near the edge is Tiberius, the stepson Augustus adopted as his heir. Holding a staff, he has arrived in a chariot with none other than winged Victory, but is now alighting, as if encouraged by her to move on to the next military challenge. To the right is Germanicus, the nephew Tiberius adopted as his heir at the behest of Augustus, in military dress. Here Augustus is setting forth his plans for a dynasty that will wage war to expand the Roman realm and extend the prosperity he engineered.

The lower register displays a moment of triumphalism whose meaning may be keyed to the date of the Gemma’s making (A.D. 9-12): In the year 9, the Roman army conquered the Pannonians with Tiberius as general. The cameo, on the left, depicts Roman soldiers raising a victory monument over their enemies, one clearly stripped of his armor and with hands tied behind his back. On the right, it shows the enemy being yanked into captivity by a pair that may be Mercury and Diana, a sign that the gods sided with the Romans. And this is all happening—literally—at the feet of Augustus and Roma. (The Roman army also suffered a defeat at the hands of Germanic tribes in A.D. 9, and an alternative interpretation holds that the lower register presents a counter-narrative to that setback. Either way, it’s propaganda.)

The Gemma Augustea sits in a dark room at the museum, mounted in its own vitrine and hanging on a little gold loop extending from the top of its backing (added much later). It outshines everything else in the gallery, though the other ancient cameos are museum-quality, too. So it seems that Augustus, who after all was the founder and great expansionist of the Roman Empire, the architect of the Pax Romana, the creator of a golden economic age, the instigator of grand civic structures, managed to make his mark with this artifact, too.

If you cannot access my piece at the WSJ, you may see it on my archive website.