by Dana Arnold
6. Las Meninas (‘The Ladies in Waiting’) by Diego Velázquez (c. 1658–60). The artist included himself in the portrait of the family of King Philip IV of Spain.
The inclusion of such an obvious self-portrait shows the kind of status artists can come to hold, not just as court painters, as here, but more generally when they achieve an almost celebrity-like status. Their reputation can prefigure, or even overwhelm, their work. This continues to the present day, when we remember the names of artists more readily than the titles of their works – notable examples include Damien Hirst or Tracy Emin. But there is no doubt that Velázquez is seen as one of the major figures in the history of Western art. He is particularly praised for his handling of paint; there is a looseness to the brushstrokes that is slightly impressionistic. Indeed, Edouard Manet, one of the founders of the Impressionist movement in France, went to Spain and was deeply influenced by the work of Velázquez.
Also look at the way light is handled: we feel as if light is flooding in from the windows to the right of the picture and spotlighting the little girl in the middle. See also how the open door in the background brings a different light source into the picture. Las Meninas also raises some important questions about pictorial space. We must always remember that the picture surface is flat – any sense of space or depth is an illusion. Some artists have little interest in trying to create the illusion of depth – or ‘a window on the world’ as some have called it. Another look at the Gentile reveals that there is little illusion of pictorial space, the figures are jumbled up flat against the picture surface. By contrast, Velázquez creates the illusion of a room using the standard device of linear perspective.
But there is much more to this painting. We assume what we are looking at is Velázquez’s view of himself and his sitters in the mirror he was using to paint himself. This might explain why the light comes in from the right rather than the left, which is much more common in Western art – we are seeing a mirror image of the actual scene. But the King and Queen appear in the picture in the mirror at the centre of the back wall. So, who is Velázquez actually painting? We might think it is the little girl, as she is centre-stage and spotlighted, but the artist is looking beyond her, perhaps towards the figures we see only on the mirror. We, the viewers, are drawn into this complex set of spatial and compositional relationships as the artist looks out at us – as if he were painting our portrait and we look back, taking on the role of the King and Queen reflected in the mirror. This aspect of Las Meninas raises some important issues in art history.
In particular, there is the idea of art as illusion – what we are really looking at is brushstrokes on canvas; the rest is made up of our cognitive and intellectual processes that give the picture its meaning – in terms of recognizing it as a portrait and the ways in which it plays with our sense of perception. The Adoration, which is painted on panel, gives the illusion of fabrics and jewels in a flattened tableau that we stand outside; the artist’s craft is hidden in the smooth picture surface and rich materials. Conversely, Las Meninas, painted on canvas, creates a complex illusion of three-dimensional space which both draws us in and repels us. We are very aware not only of the artist but also of how the paint has been applied to the canvas in the broad brushstrokes, creating a realistic effect.
I now want to move on to representations of the world and of ideas executed in different media, and I have chosen a classical sculpture and a recent installation work as a means of doing this.
The Apollo Belvedere (Fig. 7) is perhaps one of the best-known sculptures from the ancient world. This is due not least to its striking appearance – it is over 2 metres (7 feet) in height and made entirely of white marble. It is an image of the Greek god Apollo, who was one of the twelve gods of Olympus and who represented the classical Greek spirit, standing for the rational and civilized side of human nature.
Although there are many myths that narrate the episodes of Apollo’s life, the title of this sculpture is taken from the place where the sculpture was displayed. It was placed in the Belvedere Courtyard (now part of the Pio-Clementine Museum) built for Pope Julius II in 1503, the first in the papal collection of ancient statues to be displayed there. This was a Roman copy of a Greek original from the 5th century BCE; the statue may have been sculpted by Leochares, one of whose works is mentioned in Pliny as being an Apollo wearing a diadem.
7. One of the best-known sculptures from the ancient world, the Apollo Belvedere is more than 2 metres (7 feet) high. It is a Roman copy of a 5th century BCE Greek original.
As the twin brother of Artemis, known also as Diana, Apollo was considered to represent masculine physical perfection, just as his sister represented female perfection. This sculpture certainly exploits the idea of physical perfection – the smooth finish of the marble adds to the illusion of soft flesh and muscle of the god’s body and his blemishless idealized face. The contrast between the folds of the drapery and the smoothness of the flesh emphasize the texture of each and the sculptor’s skill in making hard stone appear to be two quite different substances. Although this image of Apollo, like many others of men from antiquity, was meant to celebrate the physical perfection of the human body, here Apollo’s modesty is presented by the addition of a fig leaf over his genitals. This is unlikely to have been there in the Greek original, but at some later date changing attitudes towards nudity and representations of the body and sexuality demanded a fig leaf be added, and it has remained in place.
It might appear strange that amidst all this idealized human perfection, there is a rather unattractive tree trunk. The texture of the bark adds little to the image, unlike the contrast between the cloak and Apollo’s flesh. Closer examination reveals that the figure’s right forearm and left hand are missing. And these begin to offer us clues as to why the tree trunk is there. Sculptures rely on the tensile strength of their material. Marble is not a very good material with which to carve outstretched limbs as it breaks quite easily, as we see here. Indeed, the cape not only works as a compositional device but also has a practical application, supporting Apollo’s outstretched arm. Thinking about the sculpture in terms of balance and the qualities of the material, the tree is, then, another device to support the weight of the whole. We can see how vulnerable the sculpture is as the right forearm has gone. The tree trunk jars with the rest of the composition as it, like the fig leaf, was added later. This time we can be almost certain that the Roman copyist added it, as the Greek original would have been cast in bronze – a material with far greater tensile strength, which is necessary to achieve this kind of pose. One of the consequences of the use of marble rather than bronze is that we mistakenly think of all classical sculpture as being white, so underscoring the idea of classical art as pure, simple, and as a result of enduring value.
The Apollo Belvedere now begins to tell us a great deal about a range of aspects of art history. Firstly, there is the question of the re-use and re-interpretation of classical forms across time. We are content to see Apollo as a fine example of Greek sculpture. Ancient Greece and Rome are often referred to as the classical world – this pinpoints a period in time. But the word ‘classic’ also means a pinnacle or exceptional example that conforms to a restrained and refined style and has enduring quality. The combination of the art from the classical epoch with this value judgement sets up the idea that ‘classical’ is best. And we can see how the interest in this style of art, in its broadest sense, has endured throughout time. The Romans copied or adapted much from Greek art and architecture. Indeed, most of our knowledge of Greek sculpture comes from Roman copies of Greek originals.
In the Renaissance, when interest in the classical world enjoyed a widespread revival, the Apollo was acquired by the Pope to form the beginnings of the papal sculpture collection. The interest in the artworks of antiquity was such that it was considered appropriate for Christian collections, including that owned by the Vatican, to contain images of pagan gods. The pose of Apollo, and indeed many other classical sculptures,
has been copied and quoted by many artists, sculptors, painters, and engravers from subsequent generations, and this tells us how classical forms have been re-used and re-interpreted, or even rejected, at various times. The pose is an example of classical contrapposto, where one side of the body does the opposite of the other. Apollo’s left side is open with his arm outstretched whilst his right is closed, similarly his weight rests on only one foot, which also gives a feeling of movement.
The Apollo Belvedere also tells us something about the rise in the interest in collecting and display of art – here it has even influenced the name of the work – and how the amassing of objects gave prominence to certain types of works and made them available to artists to copy and learn from. The Vatican collections are important in this regard as artists visited Rome as part of their education from the 16th century onwards.
The further aspect of art history that the Apollo Belvedere introduces is iconography, an important method for understanding the meaning of art. This is discussed more fully in Chapter 5, but suffice to say here that it is the study of the subjects of stories depicted in art, whether it be religious or secular. We have already seen how this works with Gentile’s Adoration of the Magi – the story behind the image. Iconography can also include the study of certain elements of a work of art that act as clues or symbols as to what is going on or who is being depicted. In the case of the Apollo, if we did not already know this was an image of the Graeco-Roman god, we might be led to that conclusion because the figure wears a crown of laurel leaves, which Apollo was given in recognition of his achievements in the arts.
My fourth example is an installation work by a woman artist who was at the forefront of the feminist movement. Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party (Fig. 8) was first exhibited in 1979. On the surface it seems a very laudable effort to bring famous women to the attention of the general public. And, significantly, we also have the artist talking about her work, so we know what she intended:
My idea for The Dinner Party grew out of research into women’s history that I had begun at the end of the 1960s . . . the prevailing attitude towards women’s history can be best summed up by the following story. While an undergraduate at UCLA, I took a course titled the Intellectual History of Europe. The professor, a respected historian, promised that at the last class he would discuss women’s contributions to Western thought. I waited eagerly all semester, and at the final meeting, the instructor strode in and announced: ‘Women’s contributions to European intellectual history: They made none.’
I was devastated by his judgement, and when later my studies demonstrated that my professor’s assessment did not stand up to intellectual scrutiny, I became convinced that the idea that women had no history – and the companion belief that there had never been any great women artists – was simply a prejudice elevated to intellectual dogma. I suspected that many people accepted these notions primarily because they had never been exposed to a different perspective.
As I began to uncover what turned out to be a treasure trove of information about women’s history, I became both empowered and inspired. My intense interest in sharing these discoveries through my art led me to wonder whether visual images might play a role in changing the prevailing views regarding women and women’s history.
Judy Chicago, The Dinner Party (1996), pp. 3–4
Chicago’s triangular dinner table had place settings made out of traditionally feminine ‘crafts’ such as embroidery and pottery, with the name of a famous woman, for instance Virginia Woolf and Doris Lessing, appearing at each place. This might seem a worthy effort but – look more closely – on each of the plates the fruit and flowers, which at first glance seem innocuous enough, form models of female genitalia. This allegorical reference to the female sex alluded to in fruit and flowers typifies feminization of art as these elements are considered decorative and domestic. Chicago’s work had and still does have its critics. Some feminists see it as portraying biology as destiny. My purpose in including it here is that it raises some more important questions about art history. Most obviously, it shows how art can have a distinctly political purpose and be quite a provocative means of getting across ideas. Here, Chicago uses the technique of unsettling the viewer as we look at something that appears almost twee, but soon the familiar becomes disturbing. It also raises the issue of women in art and of other minority groups. It is quite easy for women, and for those from minority ethnic groups, to became subcategories of art history. This implies that the main topic is the white Western male as subject, artist, and historian. What follows in this volume challenges that view.
8. The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago was first exhibited in 1979 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
The Dinner Party also tells us about the ephemeral nature of artworks – it is an installation with no permanent home. That is a fragile enough existence, but as its message is now dated or unwelcome in the eyes of many, it remains packed away from view. And this raises the issue of fashion and taste, as well as the relationship between artists and artwork where there is no patron or gallery.
My four images have set up much of what follows in this book. All of them demonstrate in different ways that art history is not just about describing images that represent the world we think we see. The subject is far more complex and rich. It is a way of looking at the culture and society of different epochs and seeing how we think about these periods and how attitudes have changed across time. The huge range of subject matter enables us to use art history to think about these issues in relation to themes such as personal and public life, religious and secular art and practices, political activism and cultural domination. The following chapters explore these different aspects of art history. But in the final chapter I end where I began with the objects themselves, describing how in the light of the various aspects of the discipline covered in this introduction we can ‘read’ art history starting out from artworks.
Chapter 2
Writing art history
In recent years much scholarship has been concerned with the historiography, that is to say the study of the history or the histories, of art, rather than with the subject itself. This is an important concern that intersects at certain points with the issues raised in this chapter. Here, I want to emphasize the different narrative frames for art history to examine the various ways in which it can be written. These modes of writing emerged in the previous chapter, where emphases on the biography of individual artists or on style were shown to be both popular and enduring narrative frames for art history. Furthermore, I introduced the question of how we respond to visual objects using words. I now want to think about the ways in which art histories have been written in order to describe art and to give it a context. Following on from this, I discuss various ways of thinking about art history in Chapter 4, and there are points of contact between that chapter and this.
There are three main strands that I want to address here. Firstly, I take examples of writing about art from a broad time span to see what, if anything, the writers have in common and also to consider the differences between them. Secondly, I look at how gender and gender bias have influenced the development of art history. Thirdly, it is important to think about our expectations of progress and evolution in art in relation to how histories are written. In this way, we can see how the various ways of writing about art can change the way in which we see the object and think about its history.
Art historians through the ages
Gaius Plinius Secundus, known as Pliny the Elder (CE 23/24–79), was a Roman writer whose 37-volume Natural History, dedicated to the Emperor Titus, is one of the best-known works on art and architecture from the ancient world. The huge work is largely concerned with natural history, as the title suggests, of the Graeco-Roman world, but art is also covered. In the Renaissance period in Italy a great deal of attention was paid to textual sources about the art of antiquity. There was a wide range of texts available, but some survived only in fragments or were only availa
ble in Greek. By contrast, Pliny’s encyclopaedic volumes had survived intact and were translated into Italian in 1476, making them far more easily accessible. As a result, the attention paid to Pliny’s discussion of art took on a disproportionate significance to the aims of the work as a whole. Nevertheless, the Natural History was an important influence on the development of writings on art as well as on art itself. And Pliny’s description of art objects helped in the identification of antique sculptures that were discovered during the Renaissance, as well as later periods. It is hard for us to imagine what it must be like not to recognize the subject of sculptures such as the Apollo Belvedere (Fig. 7). But from the Renaissance to the 18th century only careful coordination between written descriptions and surviving sculptures made identification possible. How engaging and enigmatic these anonymous fragments of the past must have seemed, not unlike the prehistoric art that we speculate about today.
Pliny also paid attention to the biographical details of the lives of artists. Most famously, his account of the painter Apelles was very influential for the formation of artistic values in the Renaissance period. The emergence of the artist as someone with status and an intellectual approach to their craft was an important part of the Renaissance period in art. This also helped ensure the continuance of the classical tradition, as artistic status was enhanced by knowledge of the art of ancient Greece and Rome.
