In the second of a series of blogs on the beginnings of museum collections, I decided to write about our nation’s museum – the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. The museum and its founding collection was a gift of Pittsburgh industrialist and later Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon. It was in 1928, that Andrew Mellon first expressed interest in starting a national art museum, and in December 1936 he offered his personal art collection, now known as the Mellon Collection, as well as funds to build the museum. Sadly, he died in March 1937 just as the construction of the museum was starting. It was built however according to his vision.
The Mellon Collection comprised of 125 paintings, 25 of which Mellon purchased from the Hermitage Museum (St. Petersburg, Russia) in 1931. The young, and poor, socialist government of the Soviet Union needed money which it raised by selling off priceless treasures to millionaires like Andrew Mellon, Calouste Gulbenkian (who founded the Gulbenkian museum in Lisbon), and Marjorie Post (owner of General Foods, Inc.).
The works acquired by Mellon and gifted to the National Gallery included Rembrandts, Van Dyck, Reubens, Botticelli, Velazquez, Hals, and a Chardin. Quite unbelievable that Stalin’s government would have permitted this kind of a cultural drain – but it certainly has enriched our National Gallery beyond imagination!!
(Sources: National Gallery of Art, The Washington Post).
I am fascinated by the cross-cultural exchanges that were starting to take place in the world in the 17th Century, and the manner in which they manifested themselves in contemporary art. The Dutch and East India companies were trading with Mughal India and other countries in the East and apart from the spices they also brought back Mughal miniatures.
In a previous blog post, East meets West – in 17th Century India, I talked about the influence of European art on Mughal miniatures during Jahangir’s reign as a result of trade and the presence of Jesuit missionaries in the region. On the flip side, the Mughal miniatures that were brought back by the traders from Agra to the Netherlands were of keen interest to many including the most famous artist of the era, Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-69). He made several ink etchings of Mughal miniatures on Japanese paper – of which 23 are known to survive.
While some were more or less exact renditions, albeit monochromatic, of the colorful miniatures, in others Rembrandt showed movement – something that is almost always missing from the static miniatures. He mainly focused on the people, their mannerisms, and costumes, and ignored the intense colors and vibrant floral background of the miniatures. Interestingly, the miniatures seemed to have an influence on his later works, which can be seen in Abraham Entertaining the Angels (1656). The circular seating of the figures, the appearance of the bearded Abraham, the round plate and jug all seem inspired by the Mughal miniature Four Mullahs (1627-28) and his copy Four Orientals under a Tree (1656-61).
(Sources: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rijksmuseum, The Frick Collection, British Museum, San Diego Museum of Art, The Getty Museum)
For some time now I’ve been wondering about the pieces with which art museums start their collections – especially the public museums like The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York or the National Gallery in London or DC – by public I mean not old royal collections like the Prado Museum. What was the first piece that seeded these incredibly large collections? So here we go – the first in the series – I’ll start with the Met in New York.
The Met started as a brainchild of a group of New York businessmen gathered in Paris in 1866 to celebrate the 90th signing of the Declaration of Independence – they wanted to start an art museum in New York similar to the ones found in European capitals. Four years later John Jay, a NY based lawyer who had rallied support from civic leaders, incorporated the museum and acquired the first of 1.5 million pieces on November 20, 1870 – a Roman sarcophagus given by Abdo Debbas, the American vice consul in Turkey. It’s Met ID is 70.1 – interesting that they didn’t say 1870.1 – all 1970 and later acquisitions probably start with the full four digits.
Just before the start of the Franco-Prussian War in July 1870, one of the founders and trustee of the museum, businessman and philanthropist William T. Blodgett left for Paris on a buying trip and a month later he acquired a collection of 57 pictures called “the Paris Collection,” sold to him by a collector in financial and political hardship. In September, he acquired a Belgian aristocrat, Count Cornet de Ways Ruart’s collection of 100 paintings, and his 3rd and final purchase was 17 more pictures from a collection. These 174 paintings, collectively known as the “Purchase of 1871,” started the collection at the Met. Here are some of them with their Met IDs!!
Perhaps fitting for a museum in New York that so many of its earliest acquisitions were by Dutch artists.
Arhip Ivanovich Kuindji (1842-1910 ) was born in Ukraine and is considered one of the greatest Russian landscape painters of his era. For me, what Hammershoi does with interiors, Kuindji does with landscapes. A magical light and hypnotic stillness radiate from his work – especially from his landscapes of the Dnieper River.
Kuindji, along with 14 other artists broke away from the convention European Neoclassical style of work favored by the St. Petersburg’s Academy of Art and formed the “Society of Itinerant Artists” in 1870. The group, known informally as the Wanderers, painted scenes of Russia’s beautiful landscape in different lights of the day. In 1880, Kuindji broke away from the Wanderers but continued painting beautiful landscapes of rivers, forests, and the sea.
One of his most notable works is Moonlight Night on the Dnieper (1882). The fluorescent green light emanating from the Dnieper contrasts with the darkness and stillness of the night and creates a magical effect in this mesmerizing picture. It was a big hit even before it was finished and even managed to captivate Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich (grandson of Tsar Nicholas I) who bought it before it was finished.
The first time I saw a painting by Vilhelm Hammershoi, I was mesmerized by the stillness of the work. Born in Copenhagen on May 15, 1864, Hammershoi is the master of stillness and light. To many he is the master of loneliness – I find his almost monotone minimalist rooms soothing and hypnotic – I don’t get the same sense of loneliness from Hammershoi’s works that I get from Hopper’s painting – perhaps because there are no lonely people in many of his rooms.
Hammershoi takes ordinary looking rooms with minimal furnishings – one chair or a single sofa – and transforms them into magical places that don’t seem to belong to our world. To stop looking at his paintings and tear one’s gaze away almost requires an effort – because it means moving from the calmness of Hammershoi’s world to the chaos of the real world.
Many of his paintings were made in and depict the interiors of his apartment at Strandgade 30 in Copenhagen. In one, light enters the room during the day, in another, moonlight streams into the room while in yet another the room is lit by two candles. The entire composition is made of light, framed doorways, and muted architectural details which leaves the viewer mesmerized.
(Source: Tate Gallery, The Met Museum, Statens Museum for Kunst, Toledo Museum of Art)
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There is something so peaceful about looking out windows – watching the world go by, yearning for the outdoors, day dreaming, pausing momentarily in the middle of a chore, appreciating the beauty of trees or the vibrancy of life on the busy streets – I wonder what these women were thinking of when they looked outside.
There’s something so magical about the windows framing the women and the light streaming indoors from these windows. Most of the women face their backs to us, and instead of seeing what they are seeing, we are only allowed to look at them in the act of looking.
I am quite fascinated by the number of women in Dutch paintings of the mid-1600s that are either reading or writing a letter. It is of course one of the many consequences of the Dutch Golden maritime age that the men and women were separated for long periods of time, and this was how they kept in touch. What is interesting however is how many of the artists picked up the same subject.
I think the Dutch artists of the same era liked to present the same content – it seems to be the same pattern with still life paintings, oranges and lemons in paintings, followed by swirly peels of oranges and lemons in paintings – perhaps the patrons all wanted the same content in their paintings.
Apparently, it’s not just us curious to know what gossip was being shared in those handwritten letters – there were others who tried to peek into the letters.
I started looking for paintings of people sitting at their desks and reading or studying because it’s finals week and that’s what I should be doing – then I decided to find women (instead of men) at desks when I discovered how many Dutch 17th Century Dutch paintings showed women reading and writing letters!! Quite a circuitous route – but still interesting to think of all those women sitting at home writing letters, sending all sorts of family and local gossip to their husbands and boyfriends while they were away exploring the world for months on end.
I should be focused like her and study for my exams!!
(Images Courtesy: Google Arts and Culture, Rijksmuseum, The Frick Collection, The Wallace Collection, Dresden Art Museum, essentialvermeer.org, MET Museum)
In 1957, almost 300 years after Diego Velazquez painted Las Meninas (1656), Picasso painted and sketched 44 interpretations of the masterpiece. Between August 16 and December 30, 1957 Picasso explored every aspect of the painting creating versions of the painting as well as almost daily sketches of the different characters in Las Meninas. While Velazquez’s Meninas was baroque with rich hues, Picasso’s black and white renditions, with their geometric shapes are true to his style.
Picasso saw a painting that was revered, and managed to hold mysteries even 300 years later, and perhaps wanted to leave something of himself in the painting. Or perhaps he wanted to analyze its details and analyze how they fit together into the composition. Perhaps he wanted to carry the painting forward by infusing it with his cubism, and perhaps he wanted to make it truly immortal by removing the humanity of its characters by replacing them with geometric shapes. Whatever the reason, Picasso worked on this, in solitude, for months towards the end of 1957 emerging with a total of 58 sketches – 44 interpretations and the rest of cubist pigeons that came to his balcony while he painted.
The interpretation was carried even further by Richard Hamilton (1922-2011) in 1972 when he made an etching called Picasso’s Meninas to celebrate the artist’s 90th birthday. Here Velazquez’s composition and Picasso’s style are fused together – the temptation to paraphrase Velazquez in Picasso’s style was irresistible” (Hamilton). And in this paraphrasing, Hamilton did a truly fantastic job!!
In a true homage to Picasso, Hamilton covered all of Picasso’s artistic styles in this one etching – the Infanta is in Picasso’s Analytical Cubism of 1912. The meninas to the left of the Infanta is in the flat graphic language Picasso was using in the 1930s. The maid behind her is in Picasso’s neo-classical style of the early 1920s, whereas the male figure is drawn using spare lines and the vocabulary of African forms that Picasso was using around 1907. The female dwarf is a version of Picasso’s Seated Woman (1927). The harlequin from Picasso’s Rose period stands in place of Velazquez’s page, and the bull, from Picasso’s 1934 Dying Bull replaces the dog (Source, Tate Britain).
The rectangular paintings in the background are copies of Picasso’s surrealist paintings, L’Aubade, 1942 and Three Musicians, 1921. The mirror – which was the focal point of Las Meninas and showed a reflection of King Philip IV of Spain and Queen Mariana, are replaced by Hamilton himself and the artist Rita Donagh, who later became his wife. They are rendered with a particular etching technique that was created by Picasso which made the two figures appear painted in the print. He replaced Velazquez’s self-portrait with Picasso in his etching and added a hammer and sickle on Picasso’s chest.
I think it’s fairly poetic that Hamilton, like Velazquez, managed to insert himself into the painting – that too in the focal point of the original painting – thereby paying homage through the etching not just to Picasso, but to Velazquez as well.
(Sources: pablopicasso.org. Tate Britain, Museo Picasso, Musée d’art moderne, Museum of Modern Art).
Last year at this time, I had done quite a few blogs on the Berlin Wall because it was the 30 years since the wall fell. I’m going to redo one of these blogs about a section of the wall with the word MADNESS written on it – with an exciting update!!
I am endlessly fascinated by the graffiti on the wall. It captures the essence of the 1980s and while a majority of the wall and graffiti are gone for good, the images from the 1980s have captured and preserved the essence of that raw, youthful energy forever. This was art on the streets being used as protest. It was the voice of a generation that used the wall as a canvas to reduce some of its horror and make it less threatening. In the words of Thierry Noir, who is the first artist to illegally paint large sections of the Berlin Wall, painting the wall, “subverted this iconic symbol of war into a symbol of hope, granting it real human significance.”
One of the remaining sections of the wall has the word MADNESS written in large black letters. It remains to this day in Berlin in the Topographie des Terrors Center and is visited by the millions of people that go to Berlin annually. It would appear to have been done by someone protesting the madness that was the Berlin Wall.
However, it turns out the graffiti was done by a member of the British Rock Band called Madness when they visited the wall in the early 80s. In his twitter feed, Dan Woody Woodgate (one of the band members) writes that in 1980 another band member, Graham Suggs McPherson, climbed on top of a van and wrote MADNESS on the Berlin Wall, which is the same one that exists today. I was thrilled to see the origin of this fascinating and meaningful word that remains to this day. While most people that see the remaining graffiti naturally conclude that it was a teenager’s commentary on what was going on with the wall and the East German regime, it was actually a band member of a popular 1980s band writing his group’s name on the wall.
In another fascinating find, as I was scouring Instagram for images of the wall, I actually found this word written on the wall from a 1980s image. What an interesting coincidence – first I found the origin of the word, and then I found an image of what appears to be the same writing from the 1980s. What do you think? Is it the same writing or another one?
I want it to be the same, but I see the differences in placement and letter sizes. So maybe not the exact same writing but still an interesting find.
A couple of weeks back I received the following image from the owner of the blog www.madnessontv.com, with a note that the graffiti in the second image was definitely done by the band, as proved by this image:
Madness were in Berlin in January 1980, and appeared on German TV “Musikladen” on January 10, 1980, and then on another TV show on January 17, 1980. Two of the bandmembers were active in the London graffiti scene before they joined the band. A great big thank you to madnesstv.com for sharing this picture with me!!