Art History Today

The Afterlife of Las Meninas (1). Firing the Starting Gun.

This is the first of a projected series on the afterlife of a painting that has resonated in myriad ways in debates about art since its inception in 1656. I'm going to look at its afterlife: its re-appearance in a variety of disparate contexts such as copies and exhibitions; its use as a trope in art history writing inside and outside the field; and Las Meninas as a symbol of the successes and failure of art history itself. Phew! Time will tell if I live up to these grand objectives!

For the first installment, we'll look at Juan Bautista Martinez del Mazo's The Artist's Family- 1664-5. Velasquez died in 1660, but he had made provision by appointing de Mazo, his pupil, one of his executors as well as admitting him into the family. Del Mazo had married the master's daughter, Francisca. Sadly, Francisca Velasquez pre-deceased her father in 1554, leaving de Mazo to re-marry, Francisca de la Vega; she appears in this painting.  

Clearly Las Meninas preyed on de Mazo's mind, since it is recalled in his nigh-obscure version. Lacking the power and grandeur of the original, del Mazo groups his family in awkward poses resulting in a clumsy and unbalanced composition. This isn't a cohesive group family portrait such as we see in Holbein or Hogarth, but a desperate attempt to yoke domesticity and the studio together, a tricky balancing act for a busy court painter who served Philip IV. We're reminded of this by the portrait of that monarch on the rear wall- a mirror in the original. We're also reminded that del Mazo and his family are his subjects, although they wouldn't be for much longer as Philip was to follow Velasquez into the great beyond about a year after this painting was executed. Perhaps it's not coincidental that the king's face has a ghastly, skeletal hue- death would not wait long. Here's another painting by del Mazo showing the infanta Margarita-, Philip's favourite daughter, the little girl in Las Meninas- mourning the death of her father in 1666.

The most fascinating, and enigmatic detail of del Mazo's family painting, is the figure at the rear of the high-ceilinged room, who paints before an easel. According to Janis Tomlinson in her comprehensive Painting in Spain, this figure could either be del Mazo, or even Velasquez himself. If it is de Mazo, then the painting could be seen as legitimization of the pupil's status as court painter, the successor of the 17th century genius. A successor, or maybe to use a French word, a remplaçant. Remplaçant could be translated as "successor", but it could also mean stand-in, a substitute. I find that interpretation more helpful: it suggests occupation of physical coordinates in space, simultaneity rather than a line of descent across time, diachronic, although that is also part of the equation. Las Meninas could be viewed as a way of framing debates about origins and artistic legacies: a space in which every subsequent interpreter or remplaçant would have to stand, like Velasquez himself, although in his case it was the model or inspiration for Las Meninas that he looked at; and with the epigones, it is Las Meninas itself, either known directly, or grasped through reproductions. In the original, Velasquez is creating ab nihilo, like God making the world, but once the world is created, it's either a case of annihilating it in order to start again from scratch- moving permanently out of Velasquez's studio -a kind of de-infantilisation- or using it as a blueprint for the replication of similar artistic worlds, a continuum of studios receding into infinity. Every painter who comes after Velasquez could be seen as an echo of the master divine painter, trapped in Velasquez's studio and his creative paradigm; and the whole project of keeping Las Meninas alive could be viewed as a relay, a race run by athletic painters of different strengths trying to keep up with Velasquez who can never be outrun.

Let's say that this artistic relay begins with the man framed in the doorway in Las Meninas, whom Hubert Damisch quite rightly calls 'Velasquez 2." "Velasquez 2" is in a privileged position because, as Damisch says, he is behind "Velasquez 1" and therefore sees Las Meninas itself being painted, a private view denied to we non-painters who only witness the race, not participate in it. So, within that numerical sequence, del Mazo should be called "Velasquez 3." It is appropriate then that he -I think it is del Mazo- labours at a canvas in a room which resembles the studio-room in Las Meninas. Later, as the relay gains momentum, things will get more complicated. By the time the baton has been passed on by Picasso, artists will make a composite of Picasso and Velasquez in order to reorient themselves relative to both the classical and modern epochs. Here del Mazo merely strives- and fails- to come to terms with the era of classical representation only. He is, in terms of the race that Las Meninas initiates, quite literally a non-starter.

 

 

Disliking Delaroche

A painting of Charles I by Paul Delaroche, the 19th century French artist, is being restored in readiness for a forthcoming exhibition at the National Gallery, London.

So what?

I must admit to having a problem with Delaroche's art: it is lifeless, contrived and, well, boring. Perhaps it's because he specialized in English history and that was rammed down my throat at school. The title of a monograph on the artist is called Paul Delaroche: History Painted, which is exactly what he does. His oeuvre is comprised of a historical pageant of emperors, kings, queens, dukes, princes, favourites- all the trappings of history with a capital H. If Sellar and Yeatman had taken up careers as painters, this might well have been the result. But there's wit in those authors, something conspicuously lacking here. This is nothing more than a dull composition stiffly based on a Mocking of Christ, probably by Titian or Rubens.

The rescuers of Delaroche's picture say that it going to be shown next to their Execution of Lady Jane Grey. Now this is a Delaroche picture I really loathe. Even members of the NG don't think much of it. Here's Erica Langmuir in the Companion to the NG.  

"I myself don't like this picture very much. I find the surface slick, the detail over-finicky for the large scale. Mainly, I dislike its sentiment: the apotheosis of female fragility pitied by a genteel executioner in russet tights. Delaroche, who based the painting on a sixteenth-century Protestant martyrology, has falsified the historical account the better to appeal to his contemporaries."

To be fair, Langmuir wrote this in 1994, but I doubt if this work has edged up the popularity stakes since then. Even the Charles I is preferable to this painted waxwork show. Speaking of the Stuart monarch, there's another representation of a historical event that must, I assume, go with the renovated picture since they're both similar in style and subject. This is the scene of Oliver Cromwell opening the lid of Charles I's coffin, an event that probably didn't happen,

Delacroix's- a much better history painter- words on this fabrication of the civil war come to mind here. "He [Cromwell] looks as he lifting the lid of a snuff box." That nails Delaroche perfectly. A precious, fussy painter obsessed with imparting an air of forced gentility to the canvas of English history. Give me paintings by Delacroix anytime.

Poussin v Jonathan Jones

I've objected to Jonathan Jones's reductive view of 17th century art before- see here- so when he wrote an article on Poussin denouncing the artist and accusing Poussin scholars of snobbery, I felt compelled to post. Sadly, Jones's view is drearily typical of how Poussin is seen today: an academic painter, of interest only to intellectuals pursuing esoteric themes in his art. It has to be said that Poussin studies itself has done much to promote this false view, Just take a look at the Villa Medici conference of a few weeks ago- that had all the hallmarks of a cabbalistic society intent on keeping Poussin a secret. At least Jones's article is out in the public realm, which is really where the debate on Poussin should be, rather than sequestered away in the hallowed halls of academe or curatorial departments.

Admittedly, there are exhibitions for the public to see; there were ones in Bilbao and New York in 2007/8. Yet, although they were open to the public, was any attempt made to arrange a conference of scholars whom the public could hear? No, of course not. The curators of this exhibition organised the events to showcase a picture that was going into a French provincial museum. There's nothing wrong with that, but there is a downside to all this curatorial activity becoming visible. My New Zealand colleague, Tony Green, who has just published Poussin's Humour, a book that counteracts the classical, dry-as-dust- perception of Poussin, has an interesting take on this controversy. Tony points out that attitudes like Jones's are down to the increase in information flow that highlights the prices of Poussin paintings, the re-discovery of lost works- and so on. That data nexus does give the punter - and journalist- the image of Poussin studies as the preserve of curators and museum professionals who certainly can be snobbish where this painter is concerned. Jones says that he was invited to a Poussin exhibition once, and where was this show put on? The Villa Medici, of course. Is it any wonder that Jones holds the view that Poussin studies is an elitist field?

But not all Poussin scholars regard Poussin as a figure of academic classicism to be preserved in amber for the delectation of connoisseurs. Outside the small circle of scholars grimly hanging onto the idealist view of Poussin, new work is emerging; but the problem is that it takes a very long time, not only for fresh writing to be published, but for work to become assimilated into the field. A high-ranking scholar once told me that Poussin studies moves "slowly." Substitute glacial for slowly, an apt metaphor for as far as Poussin studies are concerned, we seem to be frozen. We're looking at a cultural field that has turned to ice. Still, there are signs of the Great Thaw- the ice can't melt quickly enough for this Poussin Eskimo.

Despite Jones's ill-judged attack on Poussin, it has served the purpose of stimulating debate about this painter. I'm heartened by the number of comments and the fact that people feel strongly enough to give their views. A great many don't buy into Jones's naive view of Poussin. That suggests to me that the web may have a significant role to play in the battle for Poussin's soul in the future .Let's face it. We need all the help we can get!

Inside the Artist’s Studio

On Friday I went to a superb exhibition on the theme of the artist in the studio. Held at Compton Verney, the show comprises a plethora of studio images and artifacts spread across 9 rooms in the neo-classical mansion. For those unfamiliar with Compton Verney's situation, it is a large mansion not far from Stratford upon Avon. Designed by Robert Adam, the house nestles in verdant parkland. Check out the photo I took, above.

I won't say anything about CV's history- you'll find plenty here- but it won't do any harm to say a few words about the museum itself. CV is owned by the Peter Moores Foundation, Sir Peter being chairman of Littlewoods 1977-1980, and Director until 1993. After that he devoted his time towards transforming a rundown country house into a smart modern museum that stages exhibitions such as the present one. The collection that Moores has built up at CV is perhaps one of the most eclectic in the U.K. Not that there's anything wrong with that: where else would you find Chinese archaic bronzes in the same wing as 17^th century Neapolitan painting, or early German religious painting a cough and a spit away from British portraiture.

In addition to the permanent collection, there's a programme of 3 month exhibitions. In the past I've had my doubts about these- too thematically incoherent- but with The Artist's Studio, I think they've got it right in terms of theme and presentation. There's a wealth of material here: paintings, pen drawings, etchings/engravings, photographs, b/w movies of painters at work, real palettes- works of art in themselves-, Turner's travelling water-colour box, and even maulsticks in cases. The artists considered here are mainly British, but there are the odd few representations of continental studios; there are paintings by Flemish artists and the Italians are recognized by a drawing of Parmigianino showing a sketching artist. There's no way that I can encapsulate the exhibition in a short post, not least because I'm hampered by not having a catalogue of the exhibition. There's an accompanying book, but it doesn't contain every item in the show- I'll dock CV a point for that. What I will do is make some notes on a selection of exhibits that caught my eye.

C N Gijsbrechts, Trompe l'Oeil Studio Wall with Vanitas Still-Life, 1660, (Ferens, Hull)

Neglected for years, but this Flemish artist who painted at the Danish court, is due for art history resurrection. Noted for his trompe d'oeil works like this one: a painting within a painting. Note the nice touches- the canvas peeling away from the stretcher and the mini-picture of Queen Christina of Sweden. The skull has provoked debate, however. Is it simply a memento mori, making the picture a vanitas piece; is it a way of presaging the death of painting itself. Can't think of any iconographical precedents for that.

Mark Gertler, Still-Life with Self-Portrait, 1918, {Leeds Art Gallery)

Gertler was a Jew who led a poverty-stricken life. Trained at the Slade and eventually invaded Bloomsbury society. Not really welcomed though. According to Virginia Woolf, Gertler suffered from overweening egomania; he believed his "painting between the spaces" marked him out as distinctive from other artists. An intriguing image: the artistic self framed within the studio, not only reflected in the mirror, but in the flask. Echoes of Parmigianino and Jan van Eyck, but that Japanese figure? According to the literature, it represents the onset of doom. Appropriate. Gertler was to throw himself under a train.What a way for an artist to go!

William Orpen, Sunlight, 1925, (Leeds Art Gallery)

Saw this is a stunning Orpen exhibition in Dublin in 2004, so it's hello again! An Irish painter of solid middle class origin- salad days of tennis and guiness. Extremely versatile, but perhaps best known for his visual dispatches from the trenches- he was a war artist. This painting- one of the best in the show- shows a sundrenched chamber with a scantily clad model portrayed by an artist. Just think Vermeer with a dash of Bonnard.

Rodrigo Moynihan, The Shelf: Objects and Shadows- Front View, 1982-3, (Tate Modern, London).

An artist I don't know much about, but I like this. According to Tate Modern RM was another Slade graduate and war artist. His style is objectivist, then abstraction, and then back to figurative- that's the usual trajectory. There's an antiseptic, almost minimalistic look to this which is effective for zeroing in on the minutiae of the artist's life.

Perry Ogden, Photograph of Francis Bacon's Studio at 7 Reece Mews, 2009, (Hugh Lane Gallery, Dublin)

The centre of the room in one space is taken up with photos, diagrams of Francis Bacon's studio, complete with mirror designed by the artist himself. Bacon's celebrated studio is a study in organised chaos and magnificent squalor. Saw the reconstituted studio itself last time I was in Dublin, and still feel amazed to know that the studio- when dismantled into its components- numbered about 7,500 items. There's a diagram on the wall plotting the coordinates of things in the studio which I wanted to show- but I wasn't able to get it. Perry Ogden took this landmark photo of Bacon's studio last year. Watch this space for a longer post on Bacon in the not too distant future.

So that's it. Compton Verney gets the Art History Today seal of approval for the most enjoyable- and biggest- exhibition they've ever held. It's a great theme, and may be repeated in more shows. The accompanying book says that "a comparable exhibition" is being considered by the National Gallery of Washington.

Looking at Animals

Yes, Velasquez again.

 I was struck by how strangely individualized Velasquez's painting of a stag was. Painted for Philip IV in the mid 1620s, it would seem to be some kind of gruesome trophy- a spectacle guaranteed to fill the heart of any animal-lover with anger and desperation. It seems that Philip was in the habit of asking his artist to render works in oil of animals that he had either killed, or, literally, had in his sights. Looking at the painting I can't make my mind up about its status: is it is a representation of a dead stag; or is it a "portrait" of the animal before it was cruelly dispatched. If it was killed, was it stuffed and then painted. If Phillip had the real trophy on his palace walls, then why request a version in oil paint?

There's an intensity about this work that fascinates me, an interest generated in no small way by reading the Marxist critic John Berger's original essay on the estrangement of animals from man- 'Why Look at Animals'? Berger first contextualised the plight of animals in his paradigmatic Ways of Seeing, broadcast in 1972- a book followed with ideas from the series. In that book Berger argued that animals- especially those rendered in oil- were symbols of capital; in a memorable phrase he called cows seen in elegant 18^th century landscape "furniture with four legs". With this phrase Berger was signaling the way that the animal has become assimilated into the bourgeois culture of object desire and possession. Later in his animals essay of 1977, Berger unfolded a whole cultural history centred on the denaturation of the world. Animals lost their magical, ritual value; they were consequently reduced to economic units within a utilitarian society.  

"This reduction of the animal, which has a theoretical as well as economic history, is part of the same process as that by which men have been reduced to isolated productive and consuming units. Indeed, during this period an approach to animals often prefigured an approach to man. The mechanical view of the animal's work capacity was later applied to that of workers. F.W. Taylor who developed the "Taylorism"of time-motion studies and "scientific" management of industry proposed that work must be so "stupid" and so phlegmatic that he (the worker) "more nearly resembles in his mental make-up the ox than other type."

I wonder if the phlegmatic ox in Durer's celebrated Melancholia I could be seen in such terms?

Returning to Philip IV's stag- the prize of the hunter- I found a much more pertinent passage in Berger's animals essay.

"No animal confirms man either positively or negatively. The animal can be killed or eaten so that its energy is added to that which the hunter already possesses. The animal can be tamed so that it supplies and works for the peasant. But always its lack of common language, its silence, guarantees its distance, its distinctness, its exclusion, from and of man.

Just because of this distinctness, however, an animal's life, never to be confused with a man's, can be seen to run parallel to his. Only in death do the two parallel lines converge and after death, perhaps, cross over to become parallel again: hence the widespread belief in the transmigration of souls."

In Velasquez's century, it was the philosopher Descartes who held that animals were soulless, and therefore relegated to the status of a machine. But I don't see Velasquez's animal in such terms at all. There's something acutely vital about this painted stag: this animal seems to be confronting the spectator, and while there may be a silence here between the human observer and the regarded animal, it's so eloquent. To me the painted stag has an almost Albertian presence about it- Alberti said that portraits of the dead kept them in the minds of the living. In that sense, I think Philip IV's stag would qualify as a portrait because there seems to be a convergence between the animal kingdom and the human world. As Berger says, man becomes himself by returning the look of the animal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crossing Over

Another 17^th century Spanish painting, this time by Zurbaran. This one is virtually unknown, but intriguing nonetheless.

At first glance, another scene of the crucified Christ, fairly typical of 17^th century art, with maybe a patron or religious dignitary in attendance. But look more closely at that figure. Yes, he may display his hand on his heart- a gesture of fervent devotion- but in his other hand he's grasping an artist's palette. That's right; it's a representation of an artist with his paints at the foot of the cross.

If we're seeking iconographical explanations, we could argue that the elderly man is meant to be St Luke, who is often shown painting the Virgin and Child. But St Luke has nothing to do with the representation of Christ. We might try to trace the source of this original picture in debates about the appropriateness of artists portraying Christ. I remember reading about some legend in Byzantine times in which God is graciously supposed to have given artists permission to portray his own son- but although that idea is certainly germane, I think it has little to do with Zurbaran's painting.

Consulting Victor Stoichita's highly recommended Visionary Experience in the Golden Age of Spanish Art, I'm offered a variety of explanations, as follows:

 

1. It's a representation of an imaginary dialogue encountered in contracts of 17^th century Spanish art.
2. The artist has projected himself into the painting for some reason or other.
3. The artist is empathizing with the suffering of Christ, by painting himself at Golgotha.
4. The painter is having a vision.
5. The painter is standing before a canvas in the picture.

    

All of these theories could fit the fact of the painted canvas, but I find the last the most suggestive, especially as in the last post I wrote about Velasquez standing before his canvas. Could Zurbaran's artistic worshipper, or Zurbaran himself- is it a self-portrait with saviour-be visualizing the disegno interno of their painting. In other words, is the painted Christ a vision in the artistic sense? Is this what the artist has imagined in his mind's eye? Or, looking at this from another direction, is this a representation of an artist surveying a picture he has finshed? If that's the case, then why has he stepped into pictorial space disrupting the silent communion between spectator and artwork?  

Could Foucault with his jaw-dropping analysis of Las Meninas help with an investigation into the problems of representation and meaning in Zurbaran's perplexing work. It occurred to me that what Foucault said about the "system of feints' or deceptions around Velasquez's studio, are applicable to the problems here.  

".but when, in a moment, he (Velasquez) makes a step to the right, removing himself from our gaze, he will be standing exactly in front of the canvas he is painting; he will enter that region where his painting, neglected for an instant, will, for him, become visible once more, free of shadow and free of reticence. As though the painter could not at the same time be seen on the picture where he is represented and also see that upon which he is representing something. He rules at the threshold of those two incompatible visibilities."

In the case of Zurbaran, he- if we accept the self-portrait emphasis- has crossed over that threshold between the canvas and the space in which he has painted/is painting. OK. These are two entirely different situations- Zurbaran painted for monasteries and Velasquez for the court- but these issues of meta-painting, art which goes beyond its usual cultural and artistic limitations- seem to me to linked in terms of 17^th century representation.

As for the "reality effect", the details that, according to Barthes, introduce something resembling the real, then what about Zurbaran's trick of painting signed cartellinos- cards- on the surface of his pictures. With this device, Zurbaran ensured that the artist was on the canvas, as well as looking at it.

I'll be visiting the Scared Made Real exhibition in London in a few weeks, so doubtless that means similar posts in the future.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Velasquez, Teniers and Las Meninas

I got a new take on Velasquez's celebrated Las Meninas this week. I'd never connected the large box like, almost theatrical space, with anything but Velasquez's own invention. But I found out whilst teaching that Las Meninas may have been influenced, either directly or indirectly, by a painting by the Flemish artist David Teniers. This artist painted a series of views of the picture gallery of his patron- Archduke Leopold Wilhelm- in Brussels. As Madlyn Millner Kahr says in her Velasquez: the Art of Painting (1976). Teniers's Archduke Leopold Wilhelm's Picture Gallery of 1653 hung in the Alcazar in Madrid, about 4 years before Las Meninas was painted. And there's a further connection between Velasquez and Teniers's patron: the Archduke was the cousin of Philip IV, the Spanish painter's most important patron; Philip wanted a visual record in Spain of his cousin's artistic holdings.

This link between Teniers's representations of his patron's art gallery and Las Meninas seems to have some currency with some scholars. A recent exhibition on Teniers, at the Courtauld in 2007, states that the picture may have influenced Las Meninas. After all, there is a door, slightly ajar, as in the Spanish painting, where the King's Chamberlain Don Jose Nieto, is mysteriously placed, almost between two worlds. What also encouraged Kahr to forge iconographical links between Las Meninas and Teniers is the presence of the rulers in the studio, which links royal and aristocratic patronage with the art of painting- it gets the royal seal of approval.

Kahr draws on the legend of Alexandra the Great visiting Apelles's studio, thus favouring the painter, and by implication, the art, with his august presence, But Velasquez's studio doesn't resemble a picture gallery like Teniers; there are copies/approximations after baroque mythologies deep within the gloom of the room, but they lurk there like silent specters oblivious of the painting of historical events below them. That's an interpretation I quite favour: the notion that Velasquez painted the infanta Margarita, so that he could be immortalized in history along with her and her family. Yet is Velasquez looking at the infanta, or is he as de Tolnay said, deep in some "dreamy rapture", thinking of the internal design- the disegno interno- or has he stepped back to view the King and Queen who may occupy the space in which the external spectator stands., although there are problems with that view. Velasquez's left eye looks fixed on something, but his right seems to be slightly askew. He could be in a dream state, envisaging his creation before making a mark on the canvas- or has he made the mark and his attention is wavering between canvas and model. Right at the start of his celebrated account of Las Meninas, Foucault drew attention to the brush, motionless between canvas and paints. de Tolnay would say that this would represent Velasquez's separation from manual execution, as part of his bid- like Teniers- for social advancement. For me, it suggests perfect balance between inner contemplation and the act of painting itself. There needs to be more written on manual execution and the mental state of the painter- not just Velasquez. I'll leave this idea suspended in mid-air- like Velasquez's brush.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raphael’s Bathroom

The boy wonder of the renaissance- Raphael Sanzio- seems to be in the news of late. Last week we heard about the discovery of a preliminary drawing of a head of a muse for his Vatican fresco, Parnassus. Now I'm reading, courtesy of Artinfo, about an Italian couple who believed that they had found a miniature version of Raphael's celebrated paintings- the frescoes in the room of Heliodorus, not far from the Sistine Chapel- above.  

Tarcisio and Teresa de Paolis, a couple from Civitavecchia, decided to do some DIY for an extra bathroom in their apartment, just outside Rome. They got more than they bargained for- a downsized version of the Raphael frescoes in the Stanza di Elidoro. Thinking about it, a bathroom would not be inappropriate for Raphael. After all, it is known that Raphael and his workshop decorated the bathroom of Cardinal Bibbiena, also in the Vatican- below.

It turns out that the work was done by an obscure painter by the name of Ugo da Scarpi. Do Artinfo mean Ugo di Carpi? Although I recall he was an engraver of Raphael's designs, not a painter. In that case I've never heard of this mysterious bathroom decorator.

The find is starting to attract interest from renowned Raphael scholars. Nicole Dacos, the author of a book on the Domus Aurea and its influence on renaissance art, including Raphael's designs for Bibbiena's Bathroom and Raphael's Loggia for Leo X, has declared that the place should be treated as a museum. Having gone public, the Paolis couple would be only too happy to oblige if someone could supply them with somewhere else to live!

Where's Bramante- Julius's II's architect- when you need him?

 

 

Rosa at Dulwich

The Poussin conference reminded me that I'd heard last week of another gathering. This time it's on the 17^th century Italian painter Salvator Rosa, famous for his landscapes and representation of philosophers and bandits. This is scheduled for October 2010 at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, to accompany an exhibition called Rosa in Britain. I'm told that the conference concentrates on the afterlife of Rosa, the reception of his art in Britain and similar themes. The reason for this post is to alert any scholar/reader of this blog interested in contributing a paper to the conference to contact its organizer, Dr Helen Langdon. The details are below, and Rosa's Self-Portrait (National Gallery, London), is at the top of this post.

Call for Papers; Salvator Rosa in Britain.

The Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art will be hosting a conference, Salvator Rosa in Britain, on October 18^th, 2010, at Dulwich Picture Gallery, London, to accompany the exhibition Salvator Rosa (1615-1673) : Bandits, Wilderness and Magic, to be held there from 15 September – 28 November 2010. Rosa has always had a double importance for art in Britain, as both painter and phenomenon, and the conference aims to explore his vast impact on both painters and writers. Possible themes might include collectors and collecting; Rosa and concepts of the sublime, both in landscape and in magic, prophecy and enchantment; the afterlife of some outstanding works once or still in Britain, such as the Democritus, Belisarius, Atilius Regulus, Empedocles leap into Etna; Rosa and the concepts of Romantic genius and the freedom of the artist; the myths woven around Rosa's biography; bandits and witches.

Please send a 500-word outline of your proposal for a twenty-five minute presentation, along with a CV and a list of publications. The deadline for submission of proposals is 30 December 2009. The proposal should be sent to [email protected]

 

 

 

Poussin in Rome

An e.mail took me completely by surprise today. It was a notification that a Poussin conference was being held at the Villa Medici in Rome, next week- 13^th-14^th November. Now this may not appear unusual to those of you reading this blog, but I can assure you that it is. This must be the first Poussin conference held in years. I'd given up hope: no colloquia accompanied the Poussin exhibitions in Bilbao and New York in 2007-8; now, straight out of the blue one appears. I'm sincerely hoping that the bus rule applies to this- lots turning up after seeing none for a long time!

Is this the Poussin equivalent of the closed shop? I only heard about it a week before it was due to take place. I wish the conference every success, but it's a great pity that Pierre Rosenberg et al couldn't extend the debate to other scholars who are just as eager to participate in the debate as he and his French, Italian and German colleagues. Doesn't he realize that there are scholars in the United Kingdom, New Zealand and Australia who are just as eager to contribute? Why couldn't a larger conference have been held in Paris, say, that would have given Poussin scholars of all nationalities, academically junior and senior, the opportunity to meet and celebrate this distinguished painter? To their credit they've invited one American scholar who I greatly admire, but it's seems to be a strictly European affair.

There are papers here I would like to hear, but it's impossible for me to go to Rome next week. Next time, could we please have a more inclusive attitude- and more notice of the event!