art history

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The vanishing point has always held a certain mystique about it to art historians and art connoisseurs alike. The creation of specific vanishing points in the early Renaissance was a turning point in the art world, and led to cement the depth in many paintings of this time period. Before this point, most artists used skenographia on stage in order to give it more depth, with the artist Giotto even attempting a mathematical calculation to determine points of distance within art.

Brunelleschi was the first Renaissance artist to use the vanishing point and depth perception during this time period. Brunelleschi additionally noticed that when drawing Florentine buildings, all lines converged at the horizon line, therefore leading to the realization of the vanishing point. Other artists such as Donatello and Perugino helped to further cement the importance of depth during this time, culminating in Da Vinci’s Last Supper; never before had there been a painting with such mathematical accuracy in relation to depth perception and linear formation. The realization of linear perspective and the vanishing point was kept within Italy for years before flourishing throughout the rest of Europe.

The checkerboard floor pattern is one of the most obvious examples of original perspective. Alberti was one of the first artists to recognize this phenomenon, and named it as the “pavement” construction, as it typically led to the addition of a pavement scene. He later wrote a treatise entitle “De Pictura/Della Pittura” explaining the proper methods of perspective painting. His theories were based more on planar projections and calculations using the height of triangles in the distance, and also using previous mathematical concepts from Euclid.

The vanishing point and depth perception are concepts which we take for granted today because we have never known an art world without them; however, if you traverse through the ages, you will see pieces from the Middle Ages where the baby Jesus appears to be the same size as Mary because the artists had no way in which to signify perspective. It is amazing to view in art museums this subtle change in technique; many museums have paintings set up in chronological order, or at least by major movements. The Renaissance was truly its own movement within the art world, and symbolized a shift away from the chaotic, extremely fanatical world of the Middle Ages.

Without this kind of revolution within the art world, we would still be looking at one-dimensional art works, lacking a proper depth perception. This would prove to be a completely different world from the one we know now, perhaps even lacking the fundamentals of television and movies. Without depth in art, that could not have translated over into any other medium. Therefore, we owe a great deal to these post-Medieval artists who truly paved the way for modern art and art movements. Picasso would not have been able to exist without his acute understanding of the many layers of depth and perspective, and we therefore would have missed out on abstract art entirely as well as every subsequent modern art movement.

This post was contributed by Heidi Taylor, who writes about the online schools. She welcomes your feedback at HeidiLTaylor006 at gmail.com.

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"Vision of a Knight" (after Raphael)

I did this a couple of years ago. It’s a copy of a small panel painting by Raphael (6.7 × 6.7 inches) at the original size. Wikipedia says this about it (the original, of course):

The Vision of a Knight or The Dream of Scipio or Allegory is a small egg tempera painting on poplar by the Italian Renaissance artist Raphael, finished in 1504. It is in the National Gallery in London. It probably formed a pair with the Three Graces panel, also 17 cm square, now in the Chateau de Chantilly museum.

The theme is controversial. Some authorities intend the sleeping knight to represent the Roman general Scipio Africanus (236-184 BC) who was dreaming to choose between Virtue (behind whom is a steep and rocky path) and Pleasure (in looser robes). However, the two feminine figures are not presented as contestants. They may represent the ideal attributes of the knight: the book, sword and flower which they hold suggest the ideals of scholar, soldier and lover which a knight should combine.

I did it in egg tempera with oil glazes. More recent analysis by the National Gallery indicates that the original was actually an oil painting. Although it is by no means a perfect copy, I am mostly satisfied, as I think I managed to capture some portion of the sweetness of Raphael’s early work.

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First published 20 October 2006.

Over time, all paintings deteriorate. Badly made paintings deteriorate quickly, sometimes within a year or two of completion. A painting made with a high level of craftsmanship can last for many years before noticeable changes occur.

For most of us, it isn’t worth going to extreme lengths to make our paintings as permanent as they can possibly be. You could, for example, choose to paint on high-tech aluminum honeycomb panels. These are light, long-lasting, and much better supports for painting than most of those used by artists, because they don’t significantly expand or contract with changes in temperature and humidity. They also cost hundreds or thousands of dollars. If you know that you are a visionary artist who will be producing work of breathtaking magnificence that will be of incredible historic significance, you owe it to future generations to eat only cheap prepackaged noodle dishes at each meal so that you can afford to paint on the most permanent and expensive supports (until you work starts to sell for many thousands of dollars—then, go ahead and treat yourself to a nice juicy tofu burger).

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Some of the best paintings in the world were made long before the beginning of recorded history. Not all prehistoric art is great, but some of it is as brilliant and evocative as any art from any era. The cave art at Lascaux is an particularly inspired example.

Over at his excellent Illustration Art blog, David Apatoff has a post—“Lunatics and Bureaucrats”—about various ways in which people damage art. One of his examples is the damage the French government has done to the images at Lascaux via an ill-planned air conditioning system and various attempts to fix it while covering their asses from any assessment of blame.

A person named Laurence Beasley runs an organization devoted to saving what can be saved at Lascaux. I would strongly recommend that you sign the petition, or even donate some cash, to support her cause.

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On the Q&A page, Bethan writes,

I am interested in the various substrates used by 15-16th century painters- specifically wood. Which species of wood was commonly used and how were the panels constructed? I am assuming they had to be constructed very well in order to have lasted centuries without warping- a problem I am currently having. I am using birch plywood with Gamblin’s Traditional Gesso.

Bethan,

In the 15th and 16th centuries, artists typically used a local wood cut with the grain from the center of large trees. That kind of panel is hard to get these days. Italians liked woods such as poplar, cutting panels thick (up to an inch). Northern Europeans liked harder woods such as oak, which was usually cut thinner.

Panels were typically cut and planed to size, then seasoned for a year or more in the studio, with additional planing as needed as seasoning progressed. Modern authors often suggest finding seasoned high quality wood from old furniture or doors that might otherwise be discarded.

Warping is common with traditional gesso, since hide glue is very strong (stronger than most modern glues). I usually apply several coats of hide glue to the back of a panel to counteract the stress on the front. You can also gesso both sides equally. Some artists glue braces to the back of their panels, but that itself can cause problems. A carpenter can also construct a cradle using sliding dovetail joins which place less stress on the panel. You can find examples at www.realgesso.com.

I have found that birch plywood varies considerably in quality. It best to use furniture-grade or marine grade plywood rather than the stuff you find in any given home supply store. I also paint on tempered pressed wood panels (hardboard). These have been used since the early 20th century with mixed results. They are made differently now than they used to be, and the quality is variable. With care, it seems to work reasonably well.

Of course, the best panel material is high-grade aluminum honeycomb, but that’s incredibly expensive and hard to find.

Good luck!

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Those who’ve been reading here for awhile or have delved into the archives know that I’ve sometimes experimented with a traditional painting medium called tempera grassa. TG was most commonly used in the 15th and 16th centuries; it represents a transitional medium between egg tempera and true oil painting. TG consists of pigment mixed with an emulsion of egg and oil. Since the 16th century, TG has been fairly obscure—the best recent example would be the 20th century Italian master, Pietro Annigoni.

In the 19th century (especially in Germany), painting recipes were developed that involved various combinations of tempera ingredients, often including some combination of egg white, whole egg, linseed oil, stand oil, dammar varnish, stand oil, and turpentine. You can find many such recipes on the internet with a few simple Google searches. I’ve usually avoided these relatively complex recipes in favor of simple emulsions of egg yolk (the traditional binder for egg tempera) and linseed or walnut oil, mixed with pigment/water paste.

Recently, I ran across a web reprint of Egg Tempera Painting, Tempera Underpainting, Oil Emulsion Painting: A Manual of Technique, by Vaclav Vitlacyl and Rupert Davidson Turnbull. Published in 1935, it is a compendium of various tempera techniques. One that caught my eye is a recipe they call “putrido.” Putrido is one name for tempera grassa (because it starts to smell bad after a few days). They say that this is based on a recipe from an old manuscript found in Venice. For all I know it’s what was used in the Renaissance.

Take whatever quantity of dry color you wish to prepare. Divide it into two equal parts. Rub up one part with yolk of egg only into a fairly stiff paste. Rub up the other part with sun-bleached linseed oil, to about the consistency of ordinary tube colours. (To save time or trouble, it is possible to use ordinary tube oil colours, but to be sure of your ingredients, it is always advisable to grind your own colour in oil.) The part that is rubbed up with oil may be slightly larger in quantity than the part rubbed with yolk of egg. Then take the two parts so prepared and grind them together, preferably on the marble slab. It will be found that when these two parts are put together, the resultant mixture will stiffen at once into a very stiff paste, too stiff to be easily rubbed. This may be softened down by the addition of either water, emulsion, or linseed oil. If you wish to use the Putrido in its leaner form, add either water or the emulsion (Medium Fat Emulsion), but if you wish to paint with it as an oil paint using oil as the medium, then thin it down with oil. In either case, add the water, the emulsion, or the oil very slowly, only a few drops at a time, until the paste becomes a smooth cream easily handled on the marble slab.

I find this to be pretty interesting. It is a recipe that is similar to what I’ve done before, is simple to make, doesn’t involve solvents, and uses egg yolk (rather than the white or the whole egg), with which I am more familiar. They suggest that adding a small amount of oil of clove will preserve the paint mixture and allow it to be kept for some time (although not indefinitely). I expect that storing them in a refrigerator, especially in warm weather, would be a good idea. The oil of clove would also act as a retarder for the oil component of the paint, causing to dry more slowly. That could be a good or a bad thing, but I expect one would have to wait between layers for the paint to dry. You could try to balance the retarding effect of the clove oil by adding a small amount of lead napthenate, but that makes for a more complex reaction than I am really comfortable with.

I’ll have to try this recipe soon. I have a large painting that I started in tempera and then stopped work on. It might make an excellent underpainting for this TG recipe.

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Hans Memling (ca. 1440-1494) was one of the great portraitists of the 15th century. Clearly influenced by the pioneering Netherlandish oil painters from the earlier part of the century—Robert Campin, Jan van Eyck, Rogier van der Weyen—Memling concentrated on formal rendering of detail. This one is “Portrait of a Young Man,” ca. 185-90, oil on panel, 11.5 × 8.7”. Although there is relatively little form modeling of flesh tones, you still get a sense of personality and “aliveness.”

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Drawing in Early Renaissance Italy: Revised Edition by Francis Ames-Lewis. It’s a good summary of drawing in the period. Lots of illustrations, a good summary of period drawing materials and methods, and an extensive discussion of how the practice of drawing evolved in Italy in the period leading up to the High Renaissance.

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Sanguine is a hematite chalk used in Renaissance drawing. Michaelangelo’s preparatory drawings in sanguine are stunning.

Over at Lines and Colors, there’s a post on sanguine drawing. There’s also a link to this brief tutorial.

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I didn’t see the Mel Gibson movie, “The Passion of the Christ.” I was disappointed, however, by a small moment in the preview. The makers made a big point of having the movie be in the original Latin and Aramaic. When Pontius Pilate parades the tortured Jesus before the Jewish crowds, he says, “ecce homo,” which means, “behold the man.” He is attempting to demonstrate to the potentially-rebellious Jews that Jesus is no divine Messiah, only a mortal man who can bleed, suffer, and be made to submit to Roman authority like anyone else.

My pedantic quibble is this: Pilate pronounces “ecce” wrong. He says, “eche.” I’m no Latin scholar, but it is my understanding that there are no soft “C” sounds in classical Latin. It should be pronounced “eke,” just as Caesar would have been pronounced “kaisar,” not “seesar” the way we say it today. The soft “C” pronunciation is from Medieval Church Latin, which did not exist circa 33 A.D. Any real scholars should feel free to correct me on this. Read the rest of this entry »

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At this site. Judging from some of the badly-framed work I sometimes see in galleries, some artists and gallery owners don’t realize how important good framing is.

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Check out these details of “The Madonna and Cannon Van Der Paele” by Jan Van Ecyk. What’s particularly amazing to consider is how new this “Ars Nova” movement was when Van Eyck was painting. Almost no one had done anything like it before. And yet Van Eyck’s work is so stunningly fluent.

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From Flanders to Florence: The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 1400-1500 This is a book on the influence of the Netherlandish “Ars Nova” movement on Florentine art. In the early 15th century, a new style of art, using new compositional devices, new themes, new virtuoso rendering methods, and a new use of an old medium (oil paint) began to dominate painting in the Netherlands. Within a decade or so, artists such as Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden came to be well-known and highly regarded in Italy, including the city of Florence, which was at that time a great center of Renaissance painting. Locally-produced paintings in the Netherlandish style soon became popular and, over the next decades, many painters began to excel at this new style of work. This is a big book, full of wonderful illustrations, that examines this phenomenon in great detail.


Art in the Making: Rembrandt I don’t know enough about 17th century painting, so I blew a couple of Borders gift cards left over from Christmas on this book. It’s a detailed technical analysis of paintings by Rembrandt (and followers) in the National Gallery in London. I just got it, but it seems quite good so far. The folks at the National Gallery seem to really know their stuff; I’ve very much enjoyed two of their other books in the “Art in the Making” series. The other major book on the subject (in English) is Rembrandt: The Painter at Work, which I have not read.

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Historically, two of the important words that Italians used to describe the act of painting were “disegno” and “colore.” As I understand them, the words had broad meanings that I’d like to discuss a bit.

Disegno meant both “design” and “drawing.” It referred to the whole process of planning and laying out a painting, up to and including any underdrawing. It also referred to what we think of as drawing, independent from painting.

Colore meant both “color” and the process of applying paint. It included selecting which colors would be used where, layering paint, blending paint, shading, brush strokes, and so on.

I absolutely love how these words bring together concepts that are separate in English. If in painting I make a mistake in placement, I might say that I made a “drawing” error. But unless I did an actual underdrawing that doesn’t quite make sense. In Italian, however, it is exactly correct to say that the disegno was not right. It’s also great to have a word for the application of paint and its relationship to color. One can say that, in his later life, Titian paid less attention to disegno than he had previously and put most of his emphasis on colore. Impressionism is all about colore and less about disegno. In the 15th century, Netherlandish painting impressed Italians with their colore—their wonderful and precise application of paint. These words just make incredible sense to me.

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Jan Gossaert

Danaëwas one of the great Northern painters of the late Renaissance. Gossaert was born about 1478 and died in 1532. He was also called Jan Mabuse and Jennyn Van Henegouwe. In 1508 he traveled with his patron Phillip of Burgundy to Italy. His mature style became a brilliant synthesis of traditional Flemish tight realism, Italian Renaissance styles, and the innovations of Albrect Dürer. He was one of the first Northern artist to paint large-scale secular nudes as decoration for an Italian-style palace for his humanist master Phillip.

This painting is his last. It depicts Danaë as she is approached by Zeus as a beam of sunlight, just before the god impregnates her with the hero Perseus (Greek myths are like that). The subject was also painted by Titian and Rembrandt, but I am particularly fond of Gossaert’s version.

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