Pierre Bonnard (French, 1867–1947), Girl in Straw Hat (Femme au Chapeau Rouge), 1903. Oil on canvas; 15 1/8 x 17 5/8 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lynde Bradley M1958.13. Photo credit P. Richard Eells. ©2010 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

The Museum’s current exhibition Posters of Paris: Toulouse-Lautrec and his Contemporaries features a number of posters by Pierre Bonnard (French, 1867-1947)—including the fantastic France-Champagne lithograph, a work that inspired the master Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec to make ground-breaking posters.

Did you know that the Museum’s Permanent Collection has two paintings by Bonnard?

The paintings are gorgeous, and can be found on the upper level in the Bradley Collection Galleries.

One of the two paintings, Girl in Straw Hat (Femme au Chapeau Rouge), has long been one of my personal favorite artworks.  I suspect that Girl in Straw Hat was also one of Mrs. Bradley’s favorites, and there is good reason why.

Mrs. Harry L. Bradley (Milwaukee collector of an important collection of European and American painting, prints, watercolors, and sculpture from the late 19th century to the early 1970s that came as a generous gift to the Museum), even decided to put this painting on the cover of her 1968 collection catalogue.  The publicity photo just below shows her standing in front of Girl in Straw Hat when it was on loan to a 1964 Bonnard exhibition at The Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Mrs. Harry L. Bradley standing standing with her “Girl in Straw Hat” in the “Pierre Bonnard” exhibition at The Museum of Modern Art, New York, October 7-November 29, 1964.

While I can’t speak directly for Mrs. Bradley, I personally like Pierre Bonnard because he is an artist that went his own way.

I find that artists that are hard to categorize are often the most interesting.

Young Bonnard trained as a lawyer to appease his father, but he wanted to become an artist.  By the time he finished his law studies at 21, he was attending classes at the Académie Julian in Paris.  There he met Paul Sérusier, who showed Bonnard a small painting called Bois d’Amour or The Talisman.   Sérusier told him that the painting was done “as dictated by Gauguin”—the very same Gauguin that led the modern art movement at the end of the 19th century.

Bonnard, Sérusier, and a few other artists (including Edouard Vuillard) formed a short-lived group called the Nabis (Nabi mean prophet in Hebrew) to explore the possibilities offered by the new style proposed by Gauguin.  One of the ways these artists did this was by blurring the line between painting and decoration; they added decorative elements such as patterns to their paintings and worked in the decorative arts such as tapestry.

Pierre Bonnard, (French, 1867–1947), France-Champagne, 1889–1891. Color lithograph. Restricted gift of Dr. and Mrs. Martin L. Gecht, 1991.218, The Art Institute of Chicago. Image courtesy of The Art Institute of Chicago.

The other Nabi artists called Bonnard “le Nabi très japonard” because he was fascinated by Japanese wood-block prints.  These prints used large blocks of color in abstracted compositions with bold use of black ink.  Here is one example by Toshusai Sharaku (Japanese, active 1794–95) and another by Ando Hiroshige (Japanese, 1797–1858).

This Japanese influence is evident in Bonnard’s own prints, such as the France-Champagne poster on view in the Museum’s Posters of Paris exhibition. (Shown at right.)

Bonnard was also very interested in photography, and used it to come up with interesting compositions.  This summer the exhibition Snapshot: Painters and Photography, Bonnard to Vuillard at the Indianapolis Museum of Art explores the topic of that new creative process.

But by 1900, the Nabis artists had drifted apart. Bonnard was traveling throughout Europe, often with his friend Vuillard, while back in Paris, the Fauves and Cubists were busy setting new courses for 20th century art.  But as Bonnard continued to work, he didn’t take up with either moment.

Pierre Bonnard remained an art figure that is hard to define or categorize.

Girl in Straw Hat (dated 1903) is a good example of this.  The painting seems quite calm compared to what avant-garde artists were producing.  Although there is some vibration between the red of the flowers on the hat and the greens in the coat, the purplish background and the warm yellows of the hat—colors reminiscent of the Fauves—the overall effect is nonetheless harmonious. It is not exactly jarring.

One of the best parts of the painting can only be seen in person.  The paint is energetically applied, with brushstrokes you can see—you can almost imagine how Bonnard applied the paint.  Some areas, such as the hat, are almost three-dimensional due to thick buildup of paint.  The paint is also exceptionally shiny, which contrasts with the lightly covered areas where you can see the texture of the canvas.

Pierre Bonnard (French, 1867–1947), Girl in Straw Hat (Femme au Chapeau Rouge), 1903. Oil on canvas; 15 1/8 x 17 5/8 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lynde Bradley M1958.13. Photo credit P. Richard Eells. ©2010 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

Bonnard’s broken brushstrokes and lively colors capture a fleeting moment in time.  In fact, Girl in a Straw Hat looks a lot like an Impressionist painting.  But that assessment of the work makes no sense—why would an artist who had found inspiration in Gauguin, a Post-Impressionist, be working in an earlier Impressionistic style?  By the date 1903, Impressionism was considered old-fashioned and out-of-date.

But remember, I posited earlier the Bonnard like to go his own way.  He himself admitted that he discovered Impressionism late.  He wrote, “[Impressionism] came as a new enthusiasm, a sense of revelation and liberation” (quoted in T. Hyman, Bonnard, London 1998, p. 65).

In particular, Bonnard admired the work of Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who had by the early 20th century become a mentor to him. Girl in a Straw Hat is clearly inspired by Renoir, who painted ladies in hats over and over. See examples here at Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie, Frankfurt, Germany; State Hermitage Museum in Russia; Musée des beaux-arts de Montréal in Canada; the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia; and a painting sold by Christie’s in 2010.  Other paintings of women in hats by Bonnard include Woman in A White Hat at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and Jeune femme au chapeau bleu sold by Christie’s in 2010.

But despite his interest in and connections to Impressionism, Bonnard was definitely not an Impressionist.  He felt that Impressionism’s goal to catch the fleeting moment was not a deep enough reason to paint; he wanted to combine the momentary with the emotional.  Instead of painting landscapes on site, he painted interiors, often from memory.

Just look at the difference between nudes painted by Bonnard and Renoir.  Bonnard shows his un-idealized ladies (usually his wife) in domestic interiors.  Renoir shows his idealized women in the dappled sunlight of the out-of-doors.

In fact, Bonnard’s preference to paint private, quiet interior scenes with psychological tension was given its own name: Intimism.  A great example of Bonnard’s Intimist approach is Mirror on the Wash Stand in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. Even the Museum’s seemingly straight-forward composition in Girl in a Straw Hat demonstrates Intimism. Although she stands in front of you, as if ready to converse, in reality her gaze looks past you because she seems lost in her own thoughts. She is giving us more than a fleeting moment, she is exhibiting psychological intrigue.

Do you find her gaze sticking in your mind?

Throughout the early 20th century, Bonnard continues to experiment with his art.  He tried to figure out how to use all of the techniques and influences in his arsenal to produce the best reflection of the real and imaginary: the decorative patterning of the Nabis, the flattening of space found in Japanese woodblock prints, the broken brushstrokes of the Impressionist, and the vibrant color used by Gauguin and the Fauves to evoke mood.

Pierre Bonnard (French, 1867–1947), View from the Artist’s Studio, Le Cannet, 1945. Oil on canvas; 37 1/2 x 49 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lynde Bradley M1952.7. Photo credit John R. Glembin. © 2008 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

In the last phase of his career, from the 1930s until he died in 1947, Bonnard painted at Le Cannet in Southern France where he had purchased a house.  The over three hundred works that he created there are imbued with the seductive light and color of Southern France.  During this period, the culmination of his amazing career, he abstracted the natural world into colors and forms, creating canvases are to be experienced rather than “read.”  The Milwaukee Art Museum has one of the largest and most important works from this period, View from the Artist’s Studio, Le Cannet, pictured above.

So, this summer in Milwaukee, take advantage of the opportunity to see works by this complex and fascinating artist whose complete career—early and late, prints and paintings—is on view at the Museum. Posters of Paris will be on view until September 9, but these masterworks from Milwaukee’s Permanent Collection will continue to be on view for your enjoyment.

Detail of Athena pendant. Sofonisba Anguissola, The Artist’s Sister Minerva Anguissola, ca. 1564. Layton Art Collection. Full image below.

It’s hard to study art and not learn something about classical mythology.  The gods and heroes of ancient Greece and Rome are not only prevalent in ancient art (as in the Museum’s two Greek Hydria), but in later periods such as the Renaissance (which saw a “rebirth” of classical antiquity, which you can see in our Orpheus Clock) and the Neoclassical era (a perfect example is Hiram Powers’ Proserpine).

So, for the next two months, I want to take you on a tour of the Museum Collection with mythology as our theme. And what’s fun about myth is that once you learn some of the basics in iconography, or the standard in how figures and stories are depicted, you’ll be able to recognize it in other works at other museums, and even in daily walks around your city or shopping mall.

Hercules

We’ll start with one of the big names in myth: Hercules.  (Or Heracles.)

The Romans and the Greeks shared almost the same pantheon (you could say that the Romans stole the idea from the Greeks), but the Romans often used different names for the same personality.

Flemish or South German, Nautilus Cup, 1575/1625. Detail. Purchase, with funds from Donald and Donna Baumgartner.
Photo credit John Nienhuis.

The figure of Hercules can be found in Gallery #2, but you must have a sharp eye.  I mentioned him in my previous blog post on the Nautilus Cup because he is one of the many figures on the setting.  He forms the stem of the cup, as you can see in the photo detail at the right, holding up the nautilus shell (cup) on his shoulder.

Clearly, Hercules is strong, which is one his most important qualities. But two attributes of Hercules —which are parts of a character’s appearance, usually objects—pinpoint the identification.

Hercules wears the lion skin from when he killed the Nemean Lion (the first of his twelve famous labors) and leans on a gnarled club, his favorite weapon.

Hercules is a popular mythological figure in art.  Here is an ancient bronze in the Vatican Museums, and a portrait of Roman Emperor Commodus as Hercules (Romans loved to role-play, but that’s another blog post).

Atlas

Just on the other side of Gallery #2 is another familiar hero of the ancient world.  A Renaissance clockmaker decided to make a thirty-hour clock in the form of a sphere, and that sphere is supported by Atlas.

Johannes Buschmann (Augsburg, Germany, ca. 1632–1676), Table Clock with the Figure of Atlas, 1660/70. Gilt brass, brass, wrought iron, silver, fruitwood, and tortoise shell, 17 3/8 x 9 x 9 in. Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, Gabriele Flagg Pfeiffer, Mrs. Arthur J. Riebs in Memory of Her Father C.W. George Everhart and Her Mother Lillian Boynton Everhart, R.B. Flagg Foundation, Dr. and Mrs. Abraham Melamed, Mr. and Mrs. William D. Vogel, and Leonard Blumka, by exchange M2002.167. Photo credit John R. Glembin

Atlas was a Titan who was condemned to support the heavens on his head and hands as punishment for taking part in the revolt of the Titans against Zeus.  Consequently, in art Atlas is usually shown with the globe on his shoulder.

You may be familiar with the sculpture of Atlas, in Art Deco style, outside of NYC’s  Rockefeller Center in New York by Lee Lawrie.

Mars

Moving on to Gallery #5, we come to a more complicated artwork: Dutch artist Gerrit van Honthorst’s Mars, God of War.  Curators have identified the figure as Mars because he has the two attributes associated with Mars: weapons (a sword) and a helmet.  But admittedly, that isn’t a lot to use to make the identification.  The conclusion is complicated by knowing that Mars isn’t a common subject in Dutch art. If indeed the identification is correct, and the artist Honthorst painted the sitter just as Mars, it would be very unusual.

Gerrit van Honthorst (Dutch, 1590–1656, active in Italy), Mars, God of War, ca. 1624–27. Oil on canvas; 35 1/2 x 29 in. Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Myron Laskin M1975.121. Photo credit Larry Sanders

It is possible that the figure was a soldier in a religious painting, a subject that would be much more common.  In fact, curators are fairly certain that the painting was cut down from a larger work since key elements of the composition are cut off: his elbow, his sword, and, most interestingly, the tip of his torch.  Of course, another point in favor of the godly identification is the sitter’s bare chest.

The subject of the painting is further complicated by the fact that it is very unusual to see Mars as a single figure in art of any period.  The Ancient Greeks tended to avoid him because of his violent personality.  In both the Ancient Roman and later periods, Mars is usually depicted with Venus at some point in their love affair.  For instance, here is a great Botticelli painting showing Venus and Mars after their affair.  Another painting shows Mars, in full armor, discovering a barely draped Venus behind a curtain.  Only Venus can distract the war-mongering Mars from thoughts of battle!

Athena

Leaving behind manly Mars, let’s go to the Italian Baroque Gallery (#6) where we find another painting with a mythological mystery.  Here is an oil painting by female Italian artist Sofonisba Anguissola.  Encouraged by Michelangelo and Giorgio Vasari, Anguissola became the first woman artist of the Renaissance internationally known for her portraits.  She served as court painter to Philip II, King of Spain, for over a decade.

Sofonisba Anguissola (Italian, 1532–1625), The Artist’s Sister Minerva Anguissola, ca. 1564. Oil on canvas; 33 1/2 x 26 in. Layton Art Collection, Gift of the Family of Mrs. Frederick Vogel, Jr. L1952.1. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

Our painting was once thought to be a self-portrait.  The real identification of the sitter was based upon some of the artist’s drawings—but the clincher was the medallion that she wears around her neck.  It depicts the warrior goddess Athena.  We know that because of her attributes: she wears a helmet and holds a spear, and a shield lies at her feet.  You can compare the figure with this ancient Greek relief showing Athena.

But how can this possible pinpoint the identity of the girl?  Remember I said that the Romans adopted much of the Greek mythology but changed the names?  Well, they gave Athena the name Minerva.  And Sofonisba had a sister named Minerva.  Bingo!  That would also explain why it was originally thought to be Sofonisba herself–there would be a family resemblance.  Add to this that Minerva died in 1564, which is stylistically about when the painting was made (the portrait was probably a memorial), and you have a strong argument for this new identification.

So, now you should be able to name a few mythological characters when you see them.  Because these are just some of the interesting stories related to mythology in the Collection, I’ll explore more next month.

Stay tuned!

Corrado Giaquinto (Italian, 1703–1766), The Triumph of Galatea, ca. 1752. Detail. Oil on canvas; 33 1/2 x 48 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Myron Laskin M1970.68.2 Photo credit Larry Sanders.

In my August post for the Museum’s blog, Mythology at the Milwaukee Art Museum-Part 1, I focused on some great examples of Classical mythological figures in the Museum’s Collection—hopefully with the result that you will be able to identify those characters the next time you see them.

This month, I am going to explore another aspect of mythology in art.  (Don’t worry, we’ll still learn how to identify a myth or two.)  But we’ll also see that classical mythology can be both straightforward and convoluted at the same time.

First, let’s start with a basic question: what is “myth”?

There is a lot of scholarship on the definition and meaning of myth in disciplines such as anthropology.

The most basic definition of myth, however, comes from the meaning of the Greek word that serves as its root: mythos. Mythos means word, speech, tale, or story.  Although it might seem strange to have many different ideas conveyed by one word, it just shows how concepts in Ancient Greece can be very complicated.

We can investigate the more complicated role of myth in art history with a pair of paintings by Corrado Giaquinto (Italian, 1703–1766) in the Museum’s Collection.  One is The Rape of Europa, the other is The Triumph of Galatea.  They are pendant paintings, which means that they were designed to hang together.  You can find them in Gallery #6.

Corrado Giaquinto (Italian, 1703–1766), The Rape of Europa, ca. 1752. Oil on canvas; 33 1/2 x 48 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Myron Laskin M1970.68.1 Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

First, let’s summarize the stories that these paintings depict.  Europa was the daughter of a Phoenician king who lived in Asia Minor.  The god Zeus fell in love with her, and in order to gain her trust, he turned himself into a white bull.  While Europa was playing with her friends on the shore of the Aegean Sea, he approached them.  They were afraid of the bull at first, but eventually saw that it was very gentle.  When Europa moved to put a crown of flowers on the bull, Zeus took off across the sea to Crete with her on his back.

Corrado Giaquinto (Italian, 1703–1766), The Triumph of Galatea, ca. 1752. Oil on canvas; 33 1/2 x 48 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Myron Laskin M1970.68.2 Photo credit Larry Sanders.

Galatea was a Nereid, a type of sea divinity who personified the waves, and lived in Sicily.  She loved the youth Acis.  A Cyclops named Polyphemus, however, loved Galatea, and he would sing for hours to try to woo her.  But because Galatea stood firm in her love for Acis, Polyphemus kllled Acis by throwing a boulder at him.  Galatea was so distraught, she turned Acis into a river so that she would always have him in some form.  The most popular moment shown in art is after this, when she is in triumph over the tragedy, riding the waves on a dolphin with all of her male and female sea attendants.  Polyphemus, meanwhile, lurks up on the cliff.

The pairing of these two myths was popular during the 18th century because it allowed for the artful depictions of beautiful women. What better subject to decorate the home?

But there is more complexity to the 18th-century admiration of these stories.

To understand what these myths represent in the 18th century, we have to go back to the Middle Ages.  Remember, classical myths are actually the religion of the ancient Greeks and Romans.  With the rise of Christianity, this ancient belief system was seen as a threat.  But as with any transition, the change was not smooth or immediate; the mythological stories would not go away.  They were, after all, appealing in their narratives.  To make them more appropriate for Christians, the myths we transformed into moralizing tales rather than religious ones.

One way this was accomplished was appropriating some gods to represent Christian values, making the myths parallel the lessons from stories in the Bible.  Not all Christian scholars believed in the propriety of this, but it certainly kept the myths alive for the Italian Renaissance humanists to “rediscover” in the 15th century.

The use of myth during the early Renaissance was complicated.  On the one hand, writers and artists felt that the classical past had value and they needed to regain what was lost.  On the other hand, these Italian Christians were a people far removed in time and culture from the original Greeks and Romans that saw myths as their religion and the way to explain the world around them.  What to do?

The answer that evolved was many pronged, but two of the most important ideas were allegory, which I will cover at the end of this post, and the concept of ut pictura poesis.

Ut pictura poesis is a line taken from the ancient Roman writer Horace.  Literally it translates to be “as is paintings, so is poetry.”  He used the phrase to suggest that painting, like poetry, is most successfully enjoyed with a general, overall view, not by looking at each individual element or line.  During the Renaissance, scholars took his philosophy one step further to say that painting was poetry in a visual format.

As you can imagine, since so much of what the Renaissance artists knew of mythology came through poets, particularly Ovid’s Metomorpheses, it was natural that painters would use the myths to prove that their paintings were just as expressive as poetry.

The perfect example of this is Titian (Italain, ca. 1488-1576), who even referred to his paintings of mythological subjects as poesie.  One of his most famous works shows the rape of the Europa.  This painting was part of a program of mythological paintings for the private rooms of King Phillip II of Spain.

Although there is much discussion on the meaning behind the eight paintings Titian did for this series, it is clear that both artist and patron considered works of myth to be appropriate for private enjoyment just like poetry.

By looking again our paintings by Giaquinto, we can certainly see why myth was a great topic to make paintings poetic—what better way to show dramatic stories with beautiful women and men than with plenty of drapery and details?

So this is how our two paintings reflect ut pictura poesis. They are also allegories, which is when something is used to represent ideas and concepts.  During the Middle Ages, these two myths took on a new, Christian meaning.

Europa’s movement from Asia Minor to Greece over the Aegean sea was compared to the movement of the soul from its earthly body to heaven after death.  Galatea was seen as the pure and moral Christian who triumphs over earthly desires represented by the violent and ugly Polyphemus.

We’ll have some more fun looking at allegory in later blog posts, so stay tuned!

John Hoppner (English, 1758–1810), Portrait of Jane Emma Orde, ca. 1806. Oil on canvas; 30 1/8 x 25 7/16 in. (76.52 x 64.61 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Josephine S. McGeoch in Memory of her husband, Gordon McGeoch M1983.197 Photo credit John R. Glembin

But did you know that there are some works by these same artists in the Museum’s permanent collection?

For instance, you will find John Hoppner’s (English, 1758-1810) lovely portrait of 5-year old Jane Emma Orde in Gallery #7 (left).  

We also have two portraits by George Romney (English, 1734-1802), below–one of beautiful Grace Ashburner, below, and another of a man recently identified as John Parker (a story for another blog post!)–that are currently in storage. 

George Romney (English, 1734–1802), Miss Grace Ashburner, 1792. Oil on canvas; 30 1/8 x 25 1/8 in. (76.52 x 63.82 cm). Layton Art Collection, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur N. McGeoch, Sr. L1941.9 Photo credit John R. Glembin

George Romney (English, 1734–1802), John Parker, 1778/81. Oil on canvas; 29 3/4 x 25 1/4 in. (75.57 x 64.14 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Catherine Jean Quirk M1989.64 Photo credit P. Richard Eells

In addition, we have a wonderful painting, below, by Edwin Landseer (English, 1802-1873) in Gallery #7.   Portrait of a Terrier, The Property of Owen Williams, ESQ., M.P. (Jocko with a Hedgehog) clearly shows why Landseer was known for his animal paintings, especially dogs.  And keep an eye out for a portrait by Anthony Van Dyck and his studio, which is currently in storage but may make an appearance in the galleries in 2013!

Edwin Landseer (English, 1802–1873), Portrait of a Terrier, The Property of Owen Williams, ESQ., M.P. (Jocko with a Hedgehog), 1828. Oil on canvas; 39 15/16 x 49 3/16 in. (101.44 x 124.94 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Erwin C. Uihlein M1967.79 Photo credit Larry Sanders

Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Gainsborough was also a great opportunity to bring out a selection of works on paper in our collection.  These pieces are only displayed for a limited amount of time because of their sensitivity to light—they will fade—so they are usually kept in storage.  It includes works by artists included in the exhibition and pieces by other artists that are related to themes in the show.  You’ll find the display on the Mezzanine Level of the Museum.

Thomas Gainsborough (English, 1727–1788), Landscape with Cattle, 1780s. Pen and ink with wash and white heightening, on paper; 11 1/16 x 14 3/8 in. (28.1 x 36.51 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the family, in memory of Isabelle Miller (George M. Chester, William M. Chester, Jr., John Chapman Chester and Marion C. Read) M1985.79 Photo credit John R. Glembin

For instance, we have a landscape drawing by Thomas Gainsborough (English, 1727-1788) to compare to the painting Going to Market in the exhibition.  Most likely from the last decade of Gainsborough’s career, Landscape with Cattle is an energetic ink drawing of a herdsman and his two cows in the hilly countryside.  The work reflects the pastoral tradition, but Gainsborough may also have been criticizing the enclosure movement, when common land was fenced for the private use of one (usually wealthy) owner, leaving the country economy broken.

Gainsborough sometimes said that while portraiture was his profession, landscape painting was his pleasure.  There was money to be made in portraits, whereas his landscapes rarely sold.

According to legend, as a boy, Gainsborough skipped school to sketch in the countryside.  In his early career as an artist, his studied the styles and techniques of Old Masters Jacob van Ruisdael, the consummate Dutch Golden Age landscape painter; Peter Paul Rubens, who produced elegant Flemish compositions; and Claude Lorrain, the French “painter of light.”

Although Gainsborough sketched outdoors, he worked mostly in his studio.  He was more interested in making an appealing composition and setting a mood than in representing a recognizable location.  Sir Joshua Reynolds wrote that Gainsborough would put together “a kind of model of lanskips…composed of broken stones, dried herbs, and pieces of looking glass”; he is said to have used broccoli for vegetation and coal for rocks, illuminating the scene with candles to create shadows.

Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606–1669), Jan Lutma, Goldsmith, 1656. Etching, drypoint, and engraving plate: 7 5/8 x 5 15/16 in. (19.37 x 15.08 cm) sheet: 7 3/4 x 5 15/16 in. (19.69 x 15.08 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gertrude Nunnemacher Schuchardt Collection, presented by William H. Schuchardt M1924.160 Photo credit John R. Glembin

A print by Rembrandt (Dutch, 1606-1669) is also part of the display.  Just as the painted self-portrait in the exhibition is a powerful image, so is Jan Lutma, Goldsmith.  Jan Lutma (ca. 1584-1669) was a famous gold- and silversmith.  Lutma is shown calm and assured at the end of his career, surrounded by objects of his trade.  He holds a candlestick, which he made, and on the table are tools such as a hammer and a container of punches.

Through using a variety of line strengths and directions, Rembrandt is able to apply the same warm glow with his etchings as his does with his paintings.  The light from the window against the wall behind the chair creates depth, while also highlighting the figure’s face and hands, to put focus on the portrait.  In earlier states, the wall behind him is a blank wall, which tells us that the window was added in later.

Other artists featured in the display on the Mezzanine are Joseph Mallard William Turner (English, 1775-1851), Edwin Landseer, and Canaletto (Italian, 1697-1768).  And, I’m very excited that a selection of British portrait miniatures featured in the 2010 exhibition Intimate Images of Love and Loss have been brought out, too, including the fantastic Woman in a Hat by George Engleheart (English, 1750–1829), which I featured in my first blog post.

I hope that you’ll take the time to check out the Mezzanine display and enjoy some of the treasures of our Collection!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Ernst Ferdinand Oehme (German, 1797–1855), Meissen in Winter, 1854. Detail. Oil on canvas; 27 x 23 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.105. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

Speaking of the holidays, one of my favorite paintings in the Museum Collection is Meissen in Winter by German artist Ernst Ferdinand Oehme. Oehme (pronounced EHR-ma) shows us a snowy street in the German town, with the church tower silhouetted against the dusky sky, and a single star shining brightly.

I’ve seen many evenings like this in Wisconsin!

A few inhabitants have braved the cold, crisp air in this Meissen scene: a couple is talking a walk, a man makes his way up the hill, and a gentleman in the foreground has stopped to gaze up at a brightly lit bay window with a cheerfully decorated Christmas tree shown in the detail at left.

The holiday scene is subtle, quiet and calm—and clearly chilly—but I think that the happy glow of that window and the hopeful promise of the single star in the darkening sky are reassuring in what could be a desolate winter scene.

I see hope in that star, and spirit.

Oehme was a pupil of Caspar David Friedrich, an artist that I highlighted in an earlier blog post. Friedrich was a leading painter during the Romantic period in Germany, and his paintings have the characteristic Romantic haunting beauty with spiritual undertones and atmospheric effects. Some great examples of Friedrich’s work include The Abbey in the Oakwood in the Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin, Germany; Winter Landscape in the National Gallery, London; and The Barrow in Snow in the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Dresden.

On one hand, Oehme adopted Friedrich’s themes and subject matter in his paintings of Nordic monastery courtyards covered in snow, castle ruins in the mountains, and figures in mystical landscapes, but this artist never aspired to the same spiritual heights as Friedrich. His artworks are more about the human experience than the spiritual realm.

Ernst Ferdinand Oehme (German, 1797–1855), Meissen in Winter, 1854. Oil on canvas; 27 x 23 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.105. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

In Meissen in Winter, which is on view at the Museum in Gallery #9, Oehme’s deviation from Friedrich’s characteristic starkness is clear in his emphasis on family, warmth, and human fellowship, symbolized by the cozy bay window with its festively emblazoned Christmas tree. That window relieves the otherwise ominous loneliness suggested by the solitary figure and the single Gothic spire.

Oehme’s unique ability to humanize the bleak elements of Friedrich’s Romanticism best identifies him as a master of the late Biedermeier period.

It is a beautiful painting like this that reminds me, when the days are at their shortest and we are just heading into the coldest part of the year, that we are not the only humans to look a reason to be hopeful for the future and to find comfort in the company of others. And that, to me, is one of the greatest reasons to study art.

Best wishes for the holiday season!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

In the manner of David Altenstetter Augsburg, Germany, d. 1617. Mirror, ca. 1600. Enamel, silver, and gilt. Milwaukee Art Museum, Purchase, with funds from Avis Martin Heller in honor of the Fine Arts Society. Photo credit John R. Glembin.

Late last year, the Milwaukee Art Museum acquired a truly one-of-a-kind object: a Renaissance mirror that is on display in Gallery #2.

Created around 1600 in the metalworking center of Augsburg, Germany, it demonstrates the technical skill and fantastic design indicative of the region. The mount includes cherubs, mythological figures, and foliate designs that masterfully come together in one fabulous whole.  These decorative elements are most likely based upon contemporary books published by German artists, which in turn are Renaissance in style because they draw inspiration from antiquity.

In particular, the basse-taille technique (when colored glass fills a pattern engraved or carved into the metal), which is used on the inner frame, makes this mirror a rare object.  This high-quality version of the enamel was pioneered by the Augsburg goldsmith David Altenstetter (ca. 1547-1617).  Only a handful of objects in museums world-wide incorporate this type of enamel-work, which puts the Museum in the company of institutions such as the Wallace Collection in London and the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna.

The mirror was the last piece in private hands that was once part of the Richard and Erna Flagg Collection of European decorative arts.  It is an appropriate addition to the “Renaissance Treasury” of the Museum that the Flaggs made possible.  But comparing it to the clocks, tableware, boxes, cabinets, and religious objects on view in the same gallery raises the question: why would a Renaissance noble want an elaborately mounted mirror in his Schatzkammer, which is a collection of precious objects put together to impress just as a Wunderkammer would have?  What would a mirror mean to someone of the time?

Today, we have mirrors all around us.  But there was a time when that wasn’t so!

In the manner of David Altenstetter Augsburg, Germany, d. 1617. Mirror, ca. 1600. Enamel, silver, and gilt. Milwaukee Art Museum, Purchase, with funds from Avis Martin Heller in honor of the Fine Arts Society. Photo credit John R. Glembin

The first mirrors were the surface of water.  This is illustrated by the myth of Narcissus, the beautiful youth that sees himself in the water while drinking and becomes transfixed; he cannot move and eventually becomes the flower, Narcissus, or as we know it, the daffodil.  John William Waterhouse painted the myth in 1903.

There is evidence that various peoples used polished black obsidian for mirrors for centuries (obsidian is essentially a naturally occurring glass).  Shiny metal was also used; some of the most well-known mirrors were made by the Etruscans, one of the Italian cultures that flourished before the ancient Romans.

Although the Romans were able to blow and cast glass, their glass was not free of imperfections and their mirrors were small and crude.  The first large-scale glass mirrors with a reflective metal backing were made in the 14th century.  They were convex because glass was blown.

It wasn’t until the 16th century that the technology to produce large, flat pieces of glass with few imperfections was mastered by the Venetians.  It was during the 1500’s that mirrors started to look like modern mirrors.

But we must remember—glass mirrors were very expensive.  For years the Venetian glass makers jealously guarded their secrets to glass making.  It is not surprising, therefore, that a wealthy aristocrat would purchase an expensive, artistic frame to show off a mirror in his home.  Visitors would have known that the mirror warranted such care and celebration!

Even in the 17^th century, mirrors were a luxury item.  In the late 1600’s, the French King Louis XIV built the “Hall of Mirrors” at the Palace at Versailles.  The Hall was where the king would hear requests and host special events.  The extensive use of mirrors in the hall dazzled visitors by reflecting the light from the many windows and impressed with his wealth and power.

But cost isn’t the only reason for the high status of a mirror.  Mirrors have long been powerful as the focus of superstitions, traditions, and legends.

Because a mirror shows reality—but in reverse—it was believed to be a door to other worlds.  And since early mirrors, made before glass was clear and smooth, gave a dark and distorted reflection, you can imagine how someone would have been disturbed by what he saw.

Breaking a mirror will give you seven years of bad luck—or so we’re told.   This is because if the mirror is destroyed, your soul could be trapped in that reflected world and would not be able to return to you.  During the Victorian period, mirrors were draped with black fabric so that the soul of the departed would not be trapped.  Covering mirrors is also a mourning tradition in the Jewish faith.

The mysterious way of the mirror naturally made it a tool for the practice of witchcraft.  Combine that with the sin of vanity, and you have a tool of the devil.  You don’t have to look any further than the fairy tale of Snow White to see how mirrors combine the search for the beautiful through magical and malevolent means!

Mirrors are such a powerful symbol that they are often used by artists within their compositions.

In an extraordinary print of 1510, Hans Baldung (German, 1484–1545) shows us in great detail a Witches Sabbath—and there, at the bottom, is a convex mirror reflecting and instigating the action.

One of the most famous mirrors in art history is the convex mirror on the far wall in The Arnolfini Portrait by Jan van Eyck (Flemish, active 1442-died 1441), which possibly reflects the figure of the artist himself.  Van Eyck was probably looking to impress the viewer with his skill in showing things outside the actual picture.

Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599-1660) uses a mirror in Las Meninas in much the same way.

Josiah McElheny (American, b. 1966), Modernity circa 1952, Mirrored and Reflected Infinitely, 2004. Hand blown mirrored glass objects, chrome metal display, glass and mirror. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Contemporary Art Society. Photo credit Tom Van Eynde, Donald Young Gallery. © Josiah McElheny.

Venus is often shown with a mirror.  It’s very fitting that the goddess of love should always look her best, but sometimes it’s hard to tell if she’s looking at herself, or at the viewer!

Even today, artists are intrigued with the possibilities—and meanings—of the mirror.  Josiah McElheny, who is represented in our Collection, uses glass and mirrors to create pieces that proves that all artwork responds to what comes before it.  Combining elements of history, art history, perception, and time, his objects “encode his work with information, converting beautiful objects into repositories of meaning.”

The same can be said, I think, of our lovely German Rennaissance mirror.  I hope you’ll take a look the next time you are in the galleries!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Anthony van Dyck and Studio. Margaret, Lady Tufton, ca. 1632. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William D. Vogel. Photo credit John R. Glembin

Margaret is shown in her elegant silk gown (which is actually an informal dress because of the loose, flowing fabric and lack of lace collar and cuffs; it shows a significant amount of bare skin!).  She has beautifully arranged curls and wears expensive matched pearls.  To accentuate her loveliness, she holds delicate roses in her lap.

When this painting entered the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection in 1956, it was heralded as a masterpiece of the Flemish painter Anthony van Dyck (1599–1641).  Van Dyck was one of the greatest portrait painters of all time. He influenced generations of later portrait painters, including Thomas Gainsborough (English, 1727-1788).  Using brilliant brushwork, elegant compositions, and luscious textiles, he gives his subjects an easy aristocratic air while still making it clear that they are beautiful, virtuous, and powerful.

But now the artist of this work is listed as “Anthony van Dyck and Studio.”  What does this mean?

Anthony van Dyck and Studio. Margaret, Lady Tufton, ca. 1632. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William D. Vogel. Photo credit John R. Glembin

The Many Copies of Lady Tufton
The first thing that you may be surprised to learn is that there is more than one painting like ours. These others can be found in English private collections (Lord Bagot and Lord Riblesdale) and at English country home collections (Goodwood and Blickling).  Variations of the painting are also at Tredegar House in South Wales and in the Royal Collection.

Why are there so many?  During the 17th century, it was common to make copies of paintings of famous personalities.  For instance, a noble gentleman would request a copy of a portrait of the king in order to show his support of the court.  It was a good political move, especially if other supporters of the king—or the king himself—decided to visit.  Women of the court were also reproduced, with the added benefit that their beauty was a welcome addition to the walls of a country home.

This means that for important painters of the time, there was a constant demand for their paintings.  As court painter to Charles I, Anthony van Dyck did what other famous artists had to do: he formed a studio that employed many young artists to help him keep up with the demand.  Remember, not only did he have new commissions (he painted almost 20 portraits of Charles I alone), he also had to produce copies of many of these works.  For instance, the equestrian portrait of Charles I in the Royal Collection has dozens of variations in copies (including, for you Downton Abbey fans, one large version that is now in the dining room of Highclere Castle, where the show is filmed).

For the original version of a portrait, Van Dyck had the subject sit for him for an hour so that he could make a preliminary sketch and paint the face.  Then, once the sitter left, the rest of the painting, including the body and the background, would be filled in by Van Dyck’s studio assistants, under his direction.  After they finished, Van Dyck would add finishing touches to the whole piece to make sure it was up to his standards.  This process allowed him to finish about one portrait a week.

The young artists who worked as assistants would thus learn the painting trade in these studios.  In fact, Anthony van Dyck started his career in the studio of the great Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640).  Even less well-known artists took on apprentices to help them with the work for painting.

Catalogue Raisonné
As you can imagine, copies of the original painting have varying degrees of handling by the master artist.  It has become the career of some art historians to differentiate the original painting from the copies, and to distinguish how much of the copy was done by the master.

It may surprise you to know that the consensus is that the original painting of our Lady Margaret is missing!  Art historians tend to agree that the work is only known through its copies, of which the Milwaukee version is the best in quality.

We know all of this because some art historians spend many years compiling a book called a catalogue raisonné.  A catalogue raisonné attempts to identity and document all of the known artworks by a particular artist.  Margaret, Lady Tufton is documented on page 641 of the Van Dyck catalogue raisonné.

Attribution and the Artist’s Signature
Of course, artists sign their paintings, so that should make finding all of the works by an artist easy, right?  Unfortunately, artists don’t always sign their works.  And sometimes the signatures aren’t always correct—sometimes they are added later on to “confirm” the known artist of a work or to raise the status of an anonymous work.

Assigning an artist to an artwork that is not signed is called attribution.  Sometimes you’ll see object labels that say “attributed to”, which is a sign that the curator doesn’t know for sure if it is that artist, but has found enough evidence to suggest that it is.

Coming up with attributions requires a lot of research into the subject matter and looking at a lot of paintings.  An art historian develops an “eye” for the artist that he or she is studying.  In other words, by studying enough paintings, you can understand the style of an artist so well that by looking at a painting you can say, this looks like a painting by Van Dyck.  This is what is called connoisseurship.

In some ways, it’s similar to a radiologist looking at an x-ray and saying, here’s where I see a tumor.  Or a botanist looking at a leaf and saying, this came from this type of plant.

Other Evidence
Of course, any expert must take in all the evidence before making a decision.  For art historians, this includes the painting’s style (is it painted like other works known to be by that artist?), written documentation (such as inscriptions and letters), and provenance (who previously owned the artwork). And now, there is a host of technological assessments that can be made, such as x-rays, UV fluorescence, and analysis of paint and canvas.  Of course, technological testing is not always in the realm of possibility for every painting, since it can be costly.  And sometimes these new tests do not come up with a conclusive answer, anyway.

Take, for instance, one of the most famous artists in history, Rembrandt.  In the over 400 years since Rembrandt died, many paintings were attributed to him.  Not only did he have many talented students who adopted a similar style, but other Netherlandish painters copied his style because the public liked it.

It didn’t hurt, of course, that a painting by Rembrandt is worth more money than a painting by a student or other painter.  This could, by the 19th century, encourage what we might call “optimistic attributions.”

This problem is something that a catalogue raisonné hopes to clear up.  Rembrandt is such an important artist that a special group of scholars began something called the Rembrandt Research Project, which set out to thoroughly study the evidence for every painting considered to be Rembrandt–to come up with a catalogue raisonné.

As you can imagine, this process isn’t always neat and tidy, especially when there is money involved.  And Rembrandt isn’t the only victim of this problem. Caravaggio (Italian, 1571-1610), Leonardo da Vinci (Italian, 1452-1519), and Titan (Italian, ca. 1488-1576), among others, have had their share of controversy, too.

Nicolaes Maes, Portrait of Jan van Royen, ca. 1665. Oil on wood panel. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Alfred Bader. Photo credit John R. Glembin

Back to Milwaukee
Now that you have an idea of what attribution means, let’s return to the Milwaukee painting and see what close looking will tell us.  By considering the painting visually, you will see why we have added “and studio” to the painting. Get your connoisseurship skills ready!

First, look at a few Van Dyck paintings for comparison:

• Portrait of Anna Wake, 1628, at the Mauritshuis in The Netherlands
• Catherine Howard, Lady d’Aubigny, ca. 1638, at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC
• Katherine, Countess of Chesterfield and Lucy, Countess of Huntingdon, 1636/40, at the Yale Center for British Art  (Incidentally, Katherine is our Margaret’s older sister.)

In general, in any good quality portrait, the face should be the best part of the painting.  Lady Margaret has a nicely modeled face with porcelain skin framed with fashionable dark curls.  The contrast of skin and hair is quite effectively painted, and the shimmer and weight of the pearls picked out of her hair and resting on her neck are also finely done.  Overall, Lady Margaret’s head holds up well to inspection.  It’s perhaps not the luminescent application of paint that Van Dyck is famous for, but still very attractive.

As you look away from Lady Margaret’s head, you can see whythe “and Studio” portion of the attribution is necessary.  In general, the paint is not as well-handled, and the composition is awkward.

Van Dyck took great delight in painting different textiles.  Silks, velvets and laces come alive in his paintings, which is clear in any of the three comparative portraits that I suggested above.  His silks, in particular, are bright and shiny.

In contrast, in Lady Margaret’s dress of blue-black silk, the shimmer of the fabric is shown with watery-looking brushstrokes of a lighter color on the darker ground.  You can see this particularly in the highlighted parts over her knees.  It just doesn’t have the refinement of Van Dyck’s handling, which is evident even in darker colors. (This is very hard to see on a computer monitor, but the first painting listed above is a good example.)

The voluminous folds of Lady Margaret’s dress effectively show her wealth, and the peaks of white fabric in her pinned slitted sleeves are depicted with detail, but overall the silk feels heavy-handed and stiff.

And although our sitter fits onto the canvas, she feels a bit wedged into the frame.  The composition is tight, particularly on the left side where her hand almost doesn’t make it in!  And the minor drapery behind her is almost an afterthought.  Van Dyck himself would have certainly made more of it, to make it a powerful symbol of Lady Margaret’s elegance and status.

So, we have a good painting, but it is clear that this is not a painting by Van Dyck’s hand. Because it is the best quality copy in existence and most likely made during Van Dyck’s lifetime, however, we have not removed him completely from the attribution.

Although sometimes reattribution can be disappointing, it can also spawn fascinating projects.  In 2009, the Metropolitan Museum of Art reattributed a painting to Velázquez (Spanish, 1599–1660) and did a special exhibition to explain the discovery process.  The recent traveling exhibition Rembrandt in America explored the issue of attributions. Some museums are even delving into the issue of authenticity directly, with exhibitions such as Close Examination at the National Gallery of London.

And here at the Milwaukee Art Museum, our portrait of Margaret, Lady Tufton serves as a great case study about how we continue to fulfill our mission through continued research on the collection and encouraging visitors to look carefully—and thoughtfully—at our artwork.

Make sure you stop by to see Lady Margaret next time you are in the galleries so that you can think about the attribution of the painting on your own!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Roman [Flavian Period], Head of a Noble Woman, 96–100 AD. Pentelic Marble. Milwaukee Art Museum, purchase, with funds from the Woman’s Exchange.
Photo credit Larry Sanders.

So of course, when I found out that hairstyles were so important in portraits of women in ancient Rome, I was thrilled!  Sabina, the wife of Hadrian, wore lovely waves similar to sculptures of Greek goddesses.  Meanwhile, Septimius Servius’s wife, Julia Domna, is known for her helmet-like rolls of hair.  The timeline of the Roman world unfolds before the fashion-conscious.

But what makes this topic even more fascinating is that, in true Roman-style, hairstyles are not just about beauty. Read on for a closer look at the political importance of Roman hairstyles (yes, you read that right), as well as a video how-to so you can give the hairdo a try yourself.

Official sculpture of women of the Imperial family not only used hairstyles to make the women identifiable, but also used them to convey messages to the public.  These high-profile ladies used their portraits—and their hair—to set an example as a proper Roman matron.

For instance, the demure hairstyle of Livia, the wife of the first emperor Augustus, reflected the modesty of the Roman Republic. Modesty was important so that citizens wouldn’t be alarmed that they were now ruled by one man rather than a consul of men. The hairstyle also countered the eastern decadence of Cleopatra of Egypt, the lover of Marc Antony, Augustus’s rival for power.  It was such a powerful message that Octavia, Augustus’s sister, adopted the same hairstyle.  It became an easy way to identify the ruling family of the early Empire.

Roman [Flavian Period], Head of a Noble Woman, 96–100 AD. Pentelic Marble. Milwaukee Art Museum, purchase, with funds from the Woman’s Exchange. Photo credit Chelsea Kelly.

Roman [Flavian Period], Head of a Noble Woman, 96–100 AD. Pentelic Marble. Milwaukee Art Museum, purchase, with funds from the Woman’s Exchange. Photo credit Chelsea Kelly.

A woman’s outward appearance was a direct reflection of her important role.  She needed to run the home efficiently and bear children that would become moral, productive members of society.  She was crucial for the very basis of Roman society, which was necessary for a peaceful and prosperous state.

Accordingly, Emperor Augustus used art as propaganda to emphasize the need for these virtues to the people.  The culmination of this is the Ara Pacis Augustae (literally, the Altar of Augustan Peace).  A monument to Augustus’s success in bringing civilization to Italy through conquest, the structure surrounding the sacrificial altar is full of meaning in every nook and cranny.  The most prominent friezes show members of the emperor’s family in a procession, preparing to conduct a religious sacrifice at the altar.  Through this use of portraiture, Augustus makes his own family the moral model for the Roman populous.  By doing this, he also claimed power for his descendents, including the women, who were immortalized in stone as good wives and mothers.

As you can see, for women of the nobility, hair was a important part of the official message!

All of this leads me to the subject of this blog post, the Museum’s portrait of a Roman woman.  You can find her in Gallery #1.

Roman [Flavian Period], Head of a Noble Woman, 96–100 AD. Pentelic Marble. Milwaukee Art Museum, purchase, with funds from the Woman’s Exchange.
Photo credit Larry Sanders.

Tough not an empress, this woman still must have come from a family that can afford a nicely sculpted portrait.  Her depiction follows that standards for portraits of women, and she is not only beautiful and calm, but also virtuous and moral.

Her smooth skin reflects the idealizing trend of the early Empire, which stems from their interest in earlier classical Greek art.  Although she now stares blankly with her smooth eyeballs, originally the sculpture would have had painted pupils.  (In later years, the pupil will be drilled into the eye to create more depth.)

Roman [Flavian Period], Head of a Noble Woman, 96–100 AD. Pentelic Marble. Milwaukee Art Museum, purchase, with funds from the Woman’s Exchange. Photo credit Chelsea Kelly.

Indicative of the Flavian period (A.D. 69–96), this hairstyle is one of the most famous because of the beautifully carved “Fonseca Bust” at the Capitoline Museum in Rome.  Click here for another view from the side.

This style is probably the easiest to identify, although sculptors had varying levels of success in showing the intricacy of the curls.  Ours is certainly not as dramatic as the “Fonesca Bust”, but is better than others.

One Baltimore hairdresser’s fascination with ancient hair has led her to experiment with these styles on real women.  Her name is Janet Stephen, and she was so captivated by a sculpture of Julia Domna at the Walters Art Gallery that she decided to try to recreate it.  She has since analyzed other hairstyles through artwork and has referenced ancient texts in order to figure out how women really did their hair.

Before now, many classicists thought that the elaborate hairstyles could only be accomplished with wigs.  With her practical experience, however, Stephens has been able to prove that in most cases the hair was the woman’s own, with perhaps switches added if the woman’s hair was not long or thick enough.

You can see her recreating our lovely lady’s style below.

Stephens presented her discoveries about the hairstyle of Vestial Virgins at the Archaeological Institute of America’s annual meeting last year.  What she is doing is a type of experimental archaeology.  A fairly new approach to exploring the past, experimental archaeology is just what it sounds like—testing a theory about the past by actually doing it.  It’s like reality TV for historians—which can be both educational and entertaining!

So, you can see that our modest marble lady gives us a captivating look into the ancient Roman world and the research continues into past civilizations–there is still much to learn!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

View of Gallery 10. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

The gallery has been reinstalled as part of the celebrations of the 125th anniversary of the founding of the Layton Art Gallery, which laid the foundation for what would become the Milwaukee Art Museum.  We’ve decided to call it Mr. Layton’s Gallery, after Milwaukee philanthropist Frederick Layton, who started it all.

You’ll find some paintings that are familiar (and part of the original gift from Frederick Layton): Old Stagecoach by Eastman Johnson, Hark! The Lark! by Winslow Homer, and Homer and His Guide by William Bouguereau. Other visitor favorites are part of this installation, such as The Last of the Spartans by Gaetano Trentanove and Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer) by Jules Bastien-Lepage.

But what might be a surprise that you have probably never seen many of the paintings because they are usually stored in our paintings vault.  The result is a luscious gallery with 52 paintings and two sculptures. In this post, we’ll look at the history behind salon hangs, and show how we decided to use it for Gallery 10.

View of Gallery 10. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

The dramatic, floor-to-ceiling installation, mixing European and American paintings, is set against a dramatically colored wall and has no individual labels.  This is often called a salon-style hang and evokes the experience of attending an exhibition at the Layton Art Gallery’s original home near Cathedral Square between 1888 (when the gallery opened) and 1919 (the year that Frederick Layton died).  Clearly, artwork was displayed very differently than it is today.

Henry Hamilton Bennett (American, 1843-1908), Exterior, Layton Art Gallery, Milwaukee, 1880s/90s, printed ca. 1980s. Gelatin silver print; Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of H. H. Bennett Studio Foundation, Inc. Photo credit John R. Glembin.

A Salon-style Hang
Why is this called salon-style?  The term derives from the regular exhibition of the French Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, which began in 1667 in Paris.  It showed the artwork of students of the Academy, so in order to fit everything in, the paintings were hung as close as possible from floor to ceiling.  In 1725, the exhibition moved to the Salon Carré (Square Salon) of the royal palace known as the Louvre, and from that point on was known as simply the Salon.

If an artist was shown in the Salon, they essentially were given official approval by the French Royal Academy–thus, the Academy had the power to make or break artists.  By the mid-19>th century, the Academy’s role in defining what art should be was challenged by French artists, most famously the Impressionists, who put together their own exhibitions in direct protest.

Despite the Salon‘s negative connotation in the progress of modern art, the regular exhibition was a critical step in the development of public museums.  Previously, it had been difficult for ordinary citizens to see artwork because it was owned by private collectors.  But because the Academy’s exhibitions were free, anyone could see the Salon, regardless of class, wealth, profession, or gender.

View of Gallery 10. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

After the French Revolution (1787-1799), the collections of the French Royal Academy were installed in the Louvre, which became a public museum.  It was considered a symbol of the triumph of culture and liberty.

Meanwhile, in London the Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768 in order to raise the status of the artist in England.  Just as the French Academy offered annual exhibitions of their members, so did the Royal Academy.  The hangs for these exhibitions were just as crowded as their French counterparts.  In fact, in 1780 although the exhibition moved to specially built rooms at Somerset House, the same salon display persisted.

For these exhibitions, the smaller works were hung lower on the wall with larger paintings above.  Many artists were displeased with the placement of their paintings, and many protested to being “skied,” or hung high on the wall, where they could not be seen well.   After all, these exhibitions were vital in an artist’s career because they needed publicity to get patrons. The painter Thomas Gainsborough (English, 1727–1788) was so angry at the placement of his paintings at one Royal Academy exhibition that he refused to show his paintings there after 1784.

View of Gallery 10. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

Because the salon-style hang was what people were used to seeing, it was used by public art museums in Europe and America during the 19th century and into the 20th century. A great example is the National Gallery of Art in London, which first opened in 1824.  But this wasn’t a museum as we would think of it today.  The paintings on display were given to the nation by the banker John Julius Angerstein, and the Gallery was in his townhouse in Pall Mall—with a salon hang used in home decorating.

The Gallery moved to its permanent, purpose-built home in Trafalgar Square in 1838.  Here’s a painting of the National Gallery of Art in London from 1886 that shows the stacked paintings in one of the galleries.

You may notice, however, that the wall is not fully covered from floor to ceiling with art.  This reflects a new approach to art display proposed by Charles Eastlake (British, 1836-1906).  Eastlake is famous for the interior decoration style named for him (derived from his book Hints on Household Taste, which has become synonymous with “Victorian”), but he was also the first director of the National Gallery, serving from 1855 to 1865.  He felt that paintings should be hung at eye level to allow for contemplation by the viewer.

The Layton Art Gallery
This individual interaction with art went hand-in-hand with the belief of gallery founders that exposure to art was crucial for making responsible citizens—a goal that Frederick Layton saw was essential in Milwaukee, which in the 1880’s was bursting with new immigrants and those who moved to the city to work in industry.

We have photographs of the Layton Art Gallery that show this type of installation.  The European trends in art installation would not have been lost on Frederick Layton; not only was he raised in England, but he returned to Europe 99 times!

Installation at the Layton Art Gallery, ca. 1910, Milwaukee Art Museum, Institutional Archives

The modified salon-hang opened a new question for art installation—now that you can see more of the wall, what color do you paint it?

The earlier preference was for a neutral color, such as grayish-green.  By the mid-19th century, the preference was turning to reddish colors, because they tended to set-off the paintings better.  Red tones were an attractive foil to the elaborate gold frames, which is obvious in Gallery 10.  In fact, the frames almost become the focal point because of their bright color and sculptural presence.

Installation at the Layton Art Gallery, ca. 1910, Milwaukee Art Museum, Institutional Archives

But this kind of art installation is still very different from the way most museums install art today.   After visiting Gallery 10, the rest of the European Galleries almost seem empty!  Why did this happen?

The most dramatic shift in art installations occurred after World War I.  A key part of this change can be traced to the Museum of Modern Art’s first exhibition in 1929, Cezanne, Gauguin, Seurat, van Gogh.  Alfred Barr, the founding director, decided to use a new technique he had seen in exhibitions in Germany: generously spaced paintings (as we are used to seeing now) and display on light neutral walls (which look practically white, the most common color used for contemporary art installations to this day).  By the time of MoMA’s 1935 exhibition on Vincent Van Gogh, Barr decided to hang his paintings with juxtapositions that were meant to educate the viewer in art historical concepts—and included explanatory labels.  Clearly a departure from the installation of art as interior decoration!

This type of installation allows the visitor to appreciate each painting on its own, a manifestation of the concept that each one is a “masterpiece” with something to impart to the viewer.  The painting has breathing room, which encourages the viewer to spend time in front of it and reflect upon its meaning.

Neutral walls were considered a modern way to cleanse the palette for the eye.  At the turn of the 20th century, the interiors of dark woodwork and walls were being replaced with lighter tones, and white was commonly used in bathrooms and kitchens as a way to encourage hygiene and fight dirt.  Even the Layton Art Gallery adopted this installation style, as you can see in this photo from the 1950′s.

Installation at the Layton Art Gallery, ca. 1955, Milwaukee Art Museum, Institutional Archives

This was quite convenient as the 20th century progressed, because art became more diverse in style and size.  In the 19th century, most artists, even those of the avant garde, painted within a familiar art tradition, so paintings set side-by-side would be fairly easy to fit together.  This isn’t quite as simple with contemporary paintings and photographs (although modern museums do experiment with salon-style installations with modern art, such as in this exhibition at the Walker Art Center).

And the Milwaukee Art Museum isn’t the only one using this historical installation method.  Many Museums have experimented with the salon-hang: the Renwick Gallery at the National Museum of American Art; the Corcoran Gallery of Art; the Frye Museum of Art; the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; and the Rhode Island School of Design Museum of Art, to name a few!

An unusual installation of modern art in salon style can be found at the Barnes Foundation—the collector, Albert C. Barnes, was a self-made millionaire who had a particular vision in how best to educate people about art.

So take some time to immerse yourself in Gallery 10.  It is a great opportunity to appreciate Milwaukee’s past, look forward to its future—and just enjoy something beautiful.

View of Gallery 10. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

Next month, I’ll highlight some of the paintings that have come “out of the vault” for this installation.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Edward William Cooke (English, 1811–1880). The Pilot Boat (Trouville Fishing Boat in a Fresh Breeze), ca. 1839. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton. Photo credit John R. Glembin

There is nothing truly avant-garde here.  No Courbet, no Manet, no Monet, no Gauguin.  Most of this artwork stands firmly in the tradition of art as it was understood for centuries.  In fact, Homer and His Guide may even have been a direct rebuttal to the type of artwork shown at the First Impressionist Exhibition of 1874.  Bougereau’s powerful painting reflects the survival of the classical, in both poetry and art, while facing adversity.

Although most of the beautiful objects from the early history of the Layton Art Collection are not ground-breaking, they are important to the time.  And many of them still show the influence of the artists leading the attack on the art establishment.

So let’s take a look at some of the paintings that have come “out of the vault!”

The Water Mill by Anton Mauve (Dutch, 1838-1888)

Anton Mauve (Dutch, 1838–1888). The Water Mill, ca. 1880. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Rev. David Keene. Photo credit John R. Glembin

One of the small paintings on the east wall, right above The Woodgatherer, probably escapes your notice. This vertical landscape, which shows a water mill in a field, was painted around 1880 by the Dutch artist Anton Mauve.  Never heard of him?  Not surprising.  Although popular in America during the third quarter of the 19th century, he is certainly not a household name today.

Mauve was one of the best Hague School painters, which was a group of 19th century Netherlandish artists who drew their subjects from 17th century Dutch masters, but their style from French Barbizon painters.  This jewel of a painting takes a modest subject and makes it come alive with active brushwork and a warm depth of color.

But what if I told you that it was Mauve taught Vinent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853-1890) to paint?  After various other careers, Van Gogh decided to become an artist and taught himself to draw.  But he wanted to paint, too, and his cousin’s husband was an artist: that artist was Anton Mauve.  For three weeks in the winter of 1881-82, Van Gogh worked in Mauve’s studio.

Although there was a break between the painters later in 1882–possibly because straight-laced Mauve found out Van Gogh was living with a woman to whom he wasn’t married–Van Gogh never forgot his first teacher’s influence.  In 1888, he dedicated a painting to his now-deceased mentor, writing in a letter to his brother Theo:

“I have been working on a size 20 canvas in the open air in an orchard… Probably the best landscape I have done.  I had just brought it home when I received our sister a Dutch notice in memory of Mauve… Something–I don’t know what–took hold of me and brought a lump to my throat, and I wrote on my picture ‘Souvenir de Mauve, Vincent Theo’ and if you agree we two will send it, such as it is, to Mrs. Mauve… it seemed to me that everything in memory of Mauve must be at once tender and very gay, and not a study in any graver key.”

Thomas Faed (Scottish, 1826–1900). The Forester’s Family, 1880. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton. Photo credit John R. Glembin

On the same wall, in the lower right corner, is a lovely painting called The Forester’s Family by Thomas Faed.  Faed was a star in the 19th century art scene–it has been said that he did for Scottish art what Robert Burns did for Scottish song.  Faed shot to fame in 1855 when his painting The Mitherless Bairn was shown at the Royal Academy in London.  A critical and popular success, this painting was praised for its meaningful narrative, artfully composed with touching details of the cottage interior and expressive faces drawn from Faed’s own childhood.

In the Museum’s painting, a girl dressed in country attire leans against a tree in a dense forest.  Presumably, the forester referenced in the title is her father, who would have been in charge of maintaining the trees (from planting to felling) for a landowner, who would sell the wood as a source of income–an important industry in Scotland.  Clearly, this is a nationalistic subject that Faed would have wanted to promote.  An additional sentimental touch is the two devoted dogs that stand to either side of the girl, as well as the puppy she holds in her arms.  The British loved their dogs, and in the 19th century it was common to show them with human-like personalities or record them with portraits of their own, such as our Portrait of a Terrier by Edwin Landseer.  It is obvious that the title The Forester’s Family doesn’t just refer to the human in the painting!

The Pilot Boat (Trouville Fishing Boat in a Fresh Breeze) by Edward William Cooke (English, 1811-1880)

Edward William Cooke (English, 1811–1880). The Pilot Boat (Trouville Fishing Boat in a Fresh Breeze), ca. 1839. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton. Photo credit John R. Glembin

The Layton Collection has three fantastic paintings by Edward William Cooke, which are all on view on the east wall: Venice, Bonchurch, and The Pilot Boat, above.  A maritime painter who looked to the 17th century Dutch artist Willem van de Velde for inspiration and traveled widely to look for subjects, Cooke was very popular in England and in America.

The Pilot Boat is the largest of these three paintings and the most dramatic. The pilot is the person at the seaport who assists the ship in navigating the shallow waters between sea and shore, and a pilot boat is a small boat that was used to transport that pilot from port to ship. You can see here the crew battling the wind and waves to get out to sea.

Edward William Cooke, Trouville fishing boat on larboard tack in rough sea, 1839. Watercolor Private Collection. Photo courtesy of the Martyn Gregory Gallery, London.

“Given to W. Baring Wall when staying at his country house.  Diary notes, October 30, ‘Made drawing of French fishing board (same as large picture)’.  The large picture then in progress has the same title in the ledger but was show at the British Institution in 1840 as Trouville fishing board in a fresh breeze.”

Dr. Munday then lists the entry for this painting, and that the location is unknown.  But… the painting has the exact dimensions of our painting.  So, the missing painting is ours!

Convoy of Wounded (Franco-Prussian War 1870) by Edouard Castres (Swiss, 1838-1902)

Edouard Castres (Swiss, 1838–1902). Convoy of Wounded (Franco-Prussian War 1870), 1870/71. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton. Photo credit John R. Glembin

In previous blog posts, I’ve been able to illustrate how having a museum’s collection on the web is so important to research.  I had always thought of Convoy of the Wounded as a beautiful painting, but about a year ago I found out more information about it that makes it really special.  It’s now on view on the south wall of Gallery 10, at the upper right corner of the doorway.

Last year, we were contacted by an art dealer in Switzerland who was selling an oil sketch of a painting that Castres had shown at the Salon of 1872, and which won a silver medal.  By searching on the internet, he found the painting in our collection database and contacted us.

What is really fascinating about our painting is that it is the first representation of a Red Cross ambulance in history.  The Red Cross was formed in 1863 in Geneva, Switzlerand, and was still developing its role when the Franco-Prussian War began.  Castres, a trained artist, signed up with the Red Cross and continued to sketch during his service. He created many heartbreaking scenes of what he saw.

Castres, who witnessed the war first hand as part of the aid through the Red Cross, was asked in 1880 to construct a panorama to document the devastation.  The panorama was on display in Geneva, Switzerland, until 1889, when it moved to the city of Lucerne and is still on view (although the top and bottom have been cropped).  Here is a complete view of the panorama. You can read more about this time here.

Castres even seems to have included himself in the painting, as the bearded man at the far left.

Heinrich von Angeli (Austrian, 1840–1925). Portrait of Mrs. Christian Wahl, 1873. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Mrs. Lucius Nieman. Photo credit John R. Glembin

On the east wall, just to the left of Homer and His Guide, is a striking portrait of Mrs. Christian Wahl.  Antonia Wahl and her husband, Milwaukee businessman Christian Wahl, were German immigrants.  His most important civic role was as the first president of the Milwaukee Park Commission, where he was instrumental in not only getting Frederick Law Olmstead to design Lake Park, but also ensured that Milwaukee would have many more parks throughout the city.  Wahl Avenue, which runs along Lake Park, as well as Wahl Park, are named for him.

Not much in known about Antonia.  She was born in 1835, the daughter of Dr. Johann George Guenther, a member of the Reichstag who was exiled after the Revolution in 1848.  The Wahls had three daughters, one of whom married the editor of the Milwaukee Journal. Wisconsin: Its Story and Biography, 1848-1913 quotes from the newspaper at the time of Mrs. Wahl’s death:

“Mrs. Antonie Wahl, widow of Christian Wahl, died at her home in this city December 3, 1909, and her death is mourned by a large circle of friends.  It is given to few persons to have so sweet a character as that of Mrs. Wahl. Gentle, considerate, and patient under all circumstances, she won the affection of all who came within the compass of her gracious influence.  Her charity was widespread, and she was tireless in her efforts to make life pleasant for others.”

The artist who painted Mrs. Wahl as a pleasant and fashionably-dressed lady of Milwaukee was Heinrich von Angeli.  An Austrian who specialized in portraits, Angeli was sought after by the courts of Europe.  His patrons ranged from Queen Victoria to Kaiser Franz Joseph to Grand Duchess Alexandra of Russia.

A Darwinian Prehistoric Social Party (The Un-Evolved Club Man of the Period) by Paul Friedrich Meyerheim (German, 1842-1915)

Paul Friedrich Meyerheim (German, 1842–1915), A Darwinian Prehistoric Social Party (The Un-Evolved Club Man of the Period), 1865. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Purchase. Photo credit P. Richard Eells

This work is probably one of the most unusual paintings on view in the gallery is on the north wall!  In a masterful composition, the German artist Paul Friedrich Meyerheim shows eight monkeys at a banquet.  The monkeys wear fancy trappings—coats, cuffs, and hats with plumes—and sit at a majestic table set with wine on an expensive marble floor, reminiscent of paintings such as Frans Hals’s Officers of the St. George Civic Guard of Haarlem.  It is clear, however, that the party has degenerated into a free-for-all.  It doesn’t take much analysis to realize that Meyerheim has used monkeys to lampoon the actions of humans.

For centuries before this, monkeys and apes were symbols in art.  Christian iconography saw them as evil and ugly, reminding humans to avoid appetite for material pleasures and sin.  By the 17th and 18th centuries, monkeys had taken on a more playful, mischevious role.  Many artists used them as a way to poke fun at people by putting them in human roles: Jan Breughel the Younger satirized the mania for tulips; Antonie Watteau depicted a “Monkey Sculptor”; and Jean-Siméon Chardin portrayed a “Monkey Painter”. Combine this with the elegant and exotic Chinoiserie style popular at the time, and you end up with a masterpiece such as Christophe Huet’s two rooms at the Château de Chantilly.  This type of decorative painting was called singerie, derived from singe, which in French means “monkey.”

The title of Meyerheim’s painting, however, shows that there is more to the interpretation. In 1859, Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of the Species was published.  The painting is dated just six years later.  The flurry of discussion on evolution–and the extrapolation that humans developed from apes, which Darwin wrote about in 1871’s The Decent of Man–led to various visual interpretations of the theory.  Many of them were satirical cartoons, particularly of Darwin himself.

But other artists took the use of monkey in art one step further and make comments on the human actions of the day.  In this painting, Meyerheim pokes fun at the gatherings of the 19th century, when things were not done until they were overdone.  A “Club Man” refers to social clubs, where a man would go to socialize with other men with similar interests.  These well-off men are obviously not the upstanding citizens they pretend to be!

I only had room here to talk about six of the paintings freshly out on view for Mr. Layton’s Gallery, but I think that you can see that there are many interesting stories to be told.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Sèvres Porcelain Manufactory (Sèvres, France, established in 1756), painted by Denis Levé (French, active 1754–1805). Covered Chestnut Bowl and Stand (marronière), 1757–58. Soft paste porcelain, vert ground color, polychrome enamels, and gilding
tureen. Bequest of Mrs. Arthur J. Riebs given in memory of her father C.W. George Everhart, and her mother Lillian Boynton Everhart. Photo credit John R. Glembin

For thousands of years, chestnuts have been a nourishing food around the world.  They can be eaten raw, dried, boiled, baked, and roasted, or even ground into flour.  The ancient Greeks and Romans ate chestnuts. Roasted ones could be found for sale on the streets of Rome in the 1500’s and in America in the early 20th century; you can still find them offered by street vendors in countries such as China, the Philippines, Japan, and Turkey, and in Europe during the winter. (They are less familiar in the United States today because of chestnut blight, a fungus that killed off the chestnut trees in America during the early 20th century.)

But our subject today is the chestnut in France–18th century France, to be specific.

The Milwaukee Art Museum has in its collection a covered chestnut bowl and stand—you’ll find it in Gallery #8.  In French, these vessels are called marronière, which comes from the French word for the high-quality sweet chestnut, marron.

Sèvres Porcelain Manufactory (Sèvres, France, established in 1756), painted by Denis Levé (French, active 1754–1805). Covered Chestnut Bowl and Stand (marronière), 1757–58. Soft paste porcelain, vert ground color, polychrome enamels, and gilding
tureen. Bequest of Mrs. Arthur J. Riebs given in memory of her father C.W. George Everhart, and her mother Lillian Boynton Everhart. Photo credit John R. Glembin

A marronière was used to serve marron glace, or chestnuts candied in sugar syrup and then glazed.  The bowl has piercings that permit air circulation, which would help the chestnuts stay crisp and allow the extra syrup that is served on them to drip out onto the tray.  Not only a tasty dessert, but a dramatic and decadent one!

As you can imagine, this specialized bowl would be used by only the most well-do-to.  Chestnut bowls were optional components for a dish service, and they were very expensive because it was difficult and time-consuming to fire bowls with elaborate piercings.  In 18th century France, the most fabulous of marronière were made by the preeminent porcelain manufactory call Sèvres.

Sèvres was the French competition for the Meissen factory in Germany.  Founded in 1738 at the Château de Vincennes, it moved to the town of Sèvres (just west of Paris) in 1756. It was renowned for its high-quality porcelain, which was in great demand by the French court and the highest tiers of the aristocracy.  In 1760, after it suffered financial difficulties, King Louis XV took control of the company and severely restricted the production of porcelain at other locations.  His mistress, Madame de Pompadour, adored Sèvres and was instrumental in getting the king involved in the factory.

Today, Sèvres from the 18th century is in high demand from collectors who appreciate its Rococo style epitomized by vibrant colors and elegant design, as well as its royal connections.

The Museum’s chestnut bowl is an outstanding example for many reasons.  The beautiful green ground—called vert, from the French word for green—is the perfect foil to the gilding that highlights the elaborate piercings.  In the same way, the pristine white porcelain sets off delicately painted flowers, so indicative of the Rococo style.  The painted and pierced decorations on the bowl and tray compliment the shape to create one harmonious whole.

There are a few unique details that make this chestnut bowl superlative. For instance, the underside of tray is green.  Because the bottom of the tray would rarely be seen, it was usually undecorated.  It is clear that whoever owned this piece spared no expense!

And then there is the chestnut used for the handle on the lid.  Perfectly modeled, it gives a hint of the contents—which would have been a visual game appreciated by dinner guests.  It is extremely rare and most likely would have been made only upon special request of the owner.

By comparing it to other chestnut bowls, you can begin to see how extraordinary this one is.  Here is one from a sale at Christie’s and a similar one from the collection of the MFA Boston.  Art dealer Adrian Sassoon has one that looks more like a basket.  The Getty Museum has a basket-shaped pair with phenomenal color and openings in a intricate pattern (but no chestnut handle!).  A closer example is at the Detroit Institute of Arts, but again, it doesn’t have that charming chestnut handle.

Our chestnut bowl is part of a small but superb collection of 18th century Sèvres given to the Milwaukee Art Museum by Milwaukeean Noryne Riebs.  Mrs. Riebs was also a well-known collector of lady’s fans.  Upon her death in 1958, both of her collections, plus a wonderful portrait of Charlotte-Françoise DeBure (which I highlighted in an earlier post) came to the Museum as a bequest.  Mrs. Riebs was certainly on the look-out for the best: much of the Sèvres collection that is on display in Gallery #8 came originally from the collection of none other than J. Pierpont Morgan.

Mrs. Rieb’s husband was Arthur J. Riebs, president of the Riebs Co., a grain merchandising firm.  She was the daughter of a well-connected Oshkosh couple, C.W. George and Lillian Everhart.  George Everhart had owned the Challoner Company, which made a number of types of machines, and he was also the president of Giant Grip Horseshoe Company.

Thanks to the generosity of Noryne Riebs, our visitors can admire the rare and beautiful chestnut bowl—and wonder how candied chestnuts taste!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida (Spanish, 1863–1923). Drawing in the Sand, ca. 1911. Oil on canvas, 21 x 25 1/4 in. (53.34 x 64.14 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the Samuel O. Buckner Collection. Photo credit Larry Sanders

Now that’s it September, I thought we’d have one more taste of summer by exploring Drawing in the Sand by Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida (Spanish, 1863-1923), which is on view in Gallery 11.

Born and raised in Spain, Sorolla’s artistic talent was discovered early.  While still in his teens, he visited the Museo del Prado in Madrid and found much to admire in the old masters of Spain: in particular, he was fascinated by Diego Veláquez’s treatment of light and José de Ribera’s vigorous brushstrokes.  After studying in Rome and Paris, he returned to Madrid in 1890 and soon became well-known in well-to-do social circles.  Although he painted portraits of royalty and the upper class, he used every artwork as a way to explore the problem of light.

Sorolla became internationally known after he exhibited at the Exposition Universelle in Paris in 1900.  At this point he found true success–and satisfaction–by combining his exploration of light and plein-air technique in his beach scenes.  A few great examples can be found in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Hispanic Society of America, the Sorolla Museum, and the Prado.

Although sometimes associated with the Impressionist and Symbolists who painted at the same time, Sorolla remained independent of a specific art movement.  At the same time, he created some of the most modern paintings of the early 20th century.

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida (Spanish, 1863–1923). Drawing in the Sand, ca. 1911. Oil on canvas, 21 x 25 1/4 in. (53.34 x 64.14 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the Samuel O. Buckner Collection. Photo credit Larry Sanders

A 1909 solo show in New York featured 356 of his paintings and introduced him to an American audience.  Touted as “the Spanish painter of sunlight and color” by the New York Times, 169,000 visitors attended the show in about a month.  He was soon given a commission for a series of murals celebrating traditional life in Spain for the Hispanic Society of America, which he painted between 1911 and 1919.

Milwaukee was at the forefront of Sorolla’s popularity in America. Drawing in the Sand was a gift to the Milwaukee Art Institute in 1911 from its early president, Samuel O. Buckner.  Just think of it as the contemporary art of its time!

After returning from his US tour, Sorolla built a home in Madrid (now a museum).  He spent the rest of his life capturing on canvas the bright light in both his gardens at home and the dramatic scenery of Spain.

Sorolla’s sparkling canvases make me feel like I need to squint against the glare.  The luscious use of paint seems to flow across the canvas even when dry.  There is a lack of detail  that can be associated to the abstraction of the period; he used areas of color rather than shading to depict volumes.  To me, the simplicity of the compositions is just what the summer is all about.  The sun so is bright that it blurs everything before your eyes, evoking other senses like feel, smell, and taste.

Although Drawing in the Sand seems like a modest painting, I like to think that the artist was referring to himself in the narrative.  Just as Sorolla first discovered his love of art on the Valencia coast, so does this little boy find artistic inspiration in the beach.  From modest beginnings can come greatness.

So, as the weather cools, take a moment to remember the summer with a look at Drawing in the Sand in the galleries.  It may just help you get through the winter to come!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

In one of the two cases in the installation are three prints designed by the Flemish artist Joris Hoefnagel (1542-1601) and engraved by his son Jacob (1575-ca. 1630).  They give us an amazing way to understand art and science in 16th century Europe.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

These prints all came from a book called Archetypa studiaque patris Georgii Hoefnagelii.  Published in 1592, the engravings illustrate an important transition in art production.

Joris Hoefnagel was one of the last important Flemish manuscript illuminators.  This means that he would decorate books by hand for the extremely wealthy.  By the late 16th century, the technique of printmaking had established itself as a way to spread images quickly and less expensively.  When Joris’s son Jacob engraved his designs and published them as a book, it was a perfect example of this transitional period in the art market.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

Joris Hoefnagel was more than just a talented illuminator.  He was also a highly intelligent, well-educated man who was fascinated with the natural world.  Perfectly at home in the Renaissance’s scientific inquiry, Hoefnagel carefully studied plants, animals, and insects, and then rendered them in detail.  Many of them were rendered here for the first time.  Other artists used his book as a source for designs in their own paintings and decorative arts.

A closer look shows that Hoefnagel has offered inspiration in another way.  Each page includes an epigram that invites the viewer to reflect upon the image and contemplate his or her place in the universe.  For instance, Plate 3 reads in Latin “Virum improbum vel mures mordeant” which translates to “May a Wicked Man at Least Be Bitten by Mice”.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

The Renaissance’s interest in the natural world gives rise to centuries of artists who explore the subject.  Still life painting in northern Europe flourished in the early 17th century.  Botanical illustrators sought to discover, categorize, and document plants and animals worldwide in the quest of knowledge.  The best-known wildlife illustrator, John James Audubon (American, b. Santo Domingo [now Haiti], 1785-1851), traveled for years to document the birds and mammals of the United States.

Contemporary artists are also interested in depicting and honoring nature.   The display on the mezzanine includes works by Milwaukee artist JoAnna Poehlmann.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

The tradition set forth by Joris Hoefnagel is alive and well in Poehlmann’s artwork.  She draws her amazingly detailed images from an extensive collection of specimens.  Her meticulous technique is obvious when looking at works such as Going Dutch I and Going Dutch IV.

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

But Poehlmann does not just celebrated the natural world in her artwork.  Her playful works display her droll sense of humor, combing her knowledge of art history and literature.  The Stamp Collection, a set of cards in a beautifully constructed envelope, juxtaposes illustrations postage stamps featuring art in order to create clever statements: a stamp of a crab with a lovingly rendered petit four makes a “crab cake” and a stamp with a tree above a perky little frog results in “tree frog.”

Installation views of the “Rembrandt and the Natural World” Mezzanine rotation. Photo by the author

JoAnna Poehlmann’s creations are always best seen in person, so make sure you stop by the Mezzanine soon!  (And stop by the Museum store to take home a little of her art.)

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Nardo di Cione (Italian, ca. 1320–1365 or 1366), Madonna and Child, ca. 1350. Tempera and gold leaf on panel. 29 1/2 x 19 in. (74.93 x 48.26 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Purchase, Myron and Elizabeth P. Laskin Fund, Marjorie Tiefenthaler Bequest, Friends of Art, and Fine Arts Society; and funds from Helen Peter Love, Chapman Foundation, Mr. and Mrs. James K. Heller, Joseph Johnson Charitable Trust, the A. D. Robertson Family, Mr. and Mrs. Donald S. Buzard, the Frederick F. Hansen Family, Dr. and Mrs. Richard Fritz, and June Burke Hansen; with additional support from Dr. and Mrs. Alfred Bader, Dr. Warren Gilson, Mrs. Edward T. Tal, Mr. and Mrs. Richard B. Flagg, Mr. and Mrs. William D. Vogel, Mrs. William D. Kyle, Sr., L. B. Smith, Mrs. Malcolm K. Whyte, Bequest of Catherine Jean Quirk, Mrs. Charles E. Sorenson, Mr. William Stiefel, and Mrs. Adelaide Ott Hayes, by exchange.

Nardo was one of three artist brothers with a workshop in Florence in the mid 14th century. They were well-known not only for church frescos, such as those in the Santa Maria Novella, but also their free-standing panel paintings.

In the years before Nardo and his brothers opened their workshop, the Italian artist Giotto (1267-1337) had become known for the revolutionary style that developed into the hallmark of the Renaissance. Giotto attempted to depict the world more realistically, using gentle shading in his figures to show depth of space, making them interact and show emotion while in recognizable settings. A perfect example is the Lamentation of Christ in the Arena Chapel in Padua dated to 1305-1306.

This was in direct contrast the Byzantine style which had been used during the middle ages: stiff, flat figures were shown frontally and arranged in a strict hierarchy within an amorphous space, such as this example at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Because Giotto worked in the same city as Nardo, we would expect to see his influence in Virgin and Child. And we do, in the delicately modeled head and hands of the figures, the thoughtful expression of the virgin, and the loving exchange between mother and child. In particular, Jesus is shown as a real baby, focused on his mother with his finger in his mouth, not as the all-knowing mini-adult of earlier art.

Nardo di Cione (Italian, ca. 1320–1365 or 1366), Madonna and Child, ca. 1350. Tempera and gold leaf on panel. 29 1/2 x 19 in. (74.93 x 48.26 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Purchase, Myron and Elizabeth P. Laskin Fund, Marjorie Tiefenthaler Bequest, Friends of Art, and Fine Arts Society; and funds from Helen Peter Love, Chapman Foundation, Mr. and Mrs. James K. Heller, Joseph Johnson Charitable Trust, the A. D. Robertson Family, Mr. and Mrs. Donald S. Buzard, the Frederick F. Hansen Family, Dr. and Mrs. Richard Fritz, and June Burke Hansen; with additional support from Dr. and Mrs. Alfred Bader, Dr. Warren Gilson, Mrs. Edward T. Tal, Mr. and Mrs. Richard B. Flagg, Mr. and Mrs. William D. Vogel, Mrs. William D. Kyle, Sr., L. B. Smith, Mrs. Malcolm K. Whyte, Bequest of Catherine Jean Quirk, Mrs. Charles E. Sorenson, Mr. William Stiefel, and Mrs. Adelaide Ott Hayes, by exchange.

But at the same time, there is also a reversion to the Byzantine style. The decorative banding of the figures’ drapery and the overall pattern of Jesus’s fabric flatten the bodies, while the gold background shimmers without a hint of location or context. In fact, their halos are not separate from the background, but are part of it, suggesting that they are in a heavenly realm.

Why is Nardo looking back to earlier artistic styles instead of forward to the developments of the Renaissance?

The answer becomes clear when you find out what was happening in Florence around 1350, when Nardo painted this work. In 1348, the bubonic plague which had been ravaging Europe swept into Florence, killing as much as half of the population in less than a year. The citizens, reeling from the horror, saw it as a judgment upon the recent changes in social, economic, and artistic ideas. To find comfort and stabilization, they returned to what had come before.

Nardo di Cione’s career was at its height during this resurgence in traditionalism, and so Virgin and Child reflects that historical reality. In this unique historical setting, Nardo produced a panel that combines the rich colors and magical world of the Byzantine style with three-dimensional figures that are imbued with humanity.

The quiet yet imposing beauty of the painting, which was most likely made as the center panel of a small folding altarpiece, and would have been used for private devotion by a wealthy 14th century Italian patron.

The patron spared no expense with rich materials, which also reflect glory upon virgin and child. The virgin is shown as the Queen of Heaven in her blue robe of expensive pigment made from lapis lazuli, a rare stone imported from Afghanistan, which was reserved for royalty. All of the gold in the painting is real gold leaf. The indentations in the panel that form the halos were originally studded with jewels, now lost to the passage of time.

In contrast to the luxurious details, however, the simple composition of the painting–with the virgin looking out at the viewer, touching her son’s chest with a gentle gesture of blessing, to show that her baby son is the way to salvation–certainly would have been a reassuring spiritual reminder to the painting’s owner.

Knowing the historical context of this important and beautiful painting of the early Renaissance, the viewer can be reminded that we should not take love, health, and comfort for granted. Best wishes for the holiday season!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

View of “Winter in Color” Mezzanine Installation. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

Until the Renaissance, winter scenes in Western art were few and far between. Not only was there a lack of interest in landscape as a subject, but also, during winter, much of Europe struggled to find food and warmth, let alone create art.

Today, even though groceries are well stocked and buildings have central heating, winter is often seen as bleak, forbidding, and colorless. But there is a hidden beauty in the cold and snow, one that, with a closer look, is alive with all sorts of hues.

View of “Winter in Color” Mezzanine Installation. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

The rotation on view on the Mezzanine, a selection from the Museum’s collection, shows how six different artists of the 20th century have interpreted winter in color. In this post, we’ll take a look at two of them.

Emil Nolde (German, 1867–1956), Cottage on the North Sea in Winter, 1930s. Watercolor on paper. Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Cynthia Davis Weix, M1999.10. Photo credit Larry Sanders. © Nolde Stiftung Seebüll

Emil Nolde’s independent personality and interest in color made him one of the most important Expressionist artists. Associated briefly with the avant-garde groups known as Die Brücke and the Berlin Secession, he was continuously pushing the boundaries of art. He was particularly interested in printmaking in the first two decades of the 20th century. We are lucky enough to have a significant collection of prints by Nolde, including the woodcut <a href="http://collection.mam.org/details.php?id=8799&quot; target="blank">Dancers and the color lithograph Music Hall III.

After a trip to the South Seas, Nolde became distrustful with the policies of colonialism and stopped using the urban, modern subjects of his earlier work, and in 1927, he returned to his homeland in the northernmost part of German near the Black Sea. His love of this area is obvious; as early as 1902, he had changed his name from Hansen to Nolde in honor of the village of his birth.

The 1930s saw Nolde and his wife settle into a farmhouse in Seebüll. Interested in watercolor for its transparent hues and serendipitous possibilities, he explored the dramatic and emotional aspects of both landscapes and flowers in this medium.

In Cottage on the North Sea in Winter, Nolde has captured the emotionality of the winter landscape. The masterful watercolor is a view from Nolde’s home towards the neighboring farm at Hülltoft.

Nolde left the white of the paper as the snow, and used a violent slash of blue and yellow for the edge of the Black Sea that breaks through the clean, cold ground cover. Meanwhile, the low-slung cottage holds its own against the vibrant sky, which is weighty yet comforting in its power. Nolde wet the paper, allowing the vibrant watercolors to pool and merge, almost out of his control. Both his technique and subject matter are a comment upon the union of man, landscape, and the elements.

Nolde’s long career spans the years of Nazi-controlled Germany. Initially supportive of the idea of a strong Germanic identity, he was a member of the Party in 1933 and 1934. Soon, however, much of his art was removed from German museums as “degenerate”; a total of 1,052 works were confiscated, the most of any artist. From 1941, he was prohibited from creating art but secretly continued to work in watercolor. After the war, he continued to work and received recognition for his career.

Keiji Shinohara (Japanese, b. 1955), Winter Garden, 1998. Color woodcut. Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Print Forum, M2005.1. Photo credit John R. Glembin

Born, raised, and trained in Japan, printmaker Keiji Shinohara now teaches at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut. His work combines a contemporary subject matter, usually abstracted landscapes, with the traditional Japanese woodblock technique of Ukiyo-e prints.

Ukiyo-e, meaning “pictures of the floating world”, developed in the 17th century in Edo (now Tokyo) and was popular into the 19th century. The name comes from a Buddhist concept related to the sadness of life, but it became associated with the worldly pleasures of middle class Japan.

According to the Japan’s social hierarchy, the merchant class was the lowest; with the increase in trade, however, the merchants amassed great wealth. This discrepancy between social and economic status led them to spend their money to commission artwork of their own, mainly in the form of color woodblock prints. The prints ranged in subject from high-culture literary and visual themes to contemporary topics such as courtesans and kabuki actors.

Ukiyo-e creates a multicolored print through the use of multiple woodblocks, one for each color. This working method was developed in Japan in 1765 and eliminated the need to hand-color black and white prints.

For centuries, Japanese artists have been interested in depicting the seasons, and that is no different in Ukiyo-e prints. Japan’s indigenous religion, Shinto, encourages the contemplation of earthly cycles in order to connect the present to the past. In a society based upon agriculture, understanding and appreciating the seasons is important for survival. In addition, Buddhist beliefs, which are often conflated with Shinto ideas, emphasize the inevitability of change.

Sometimes, all four seasons are shown in one work, illustrating the gentle progress from one to the other. One of the most familiar subjects of Japanese art, the cherry blossom, is a perfect example of appreciation of the temporary beauty of nature.

Since more than half of the country receives significant snowfall each year, winter has always been of particular interest. Keiji Shinohara’s Winter Garden explores winter through his masterful woodblock technique: he studied Ukiyo-e for ten years.

In this print, there is balance between calm and activity. The stark, dark trees at the bottom counter the light, almost transparent leaves that float in the sky. The delicate blues of the print may seem cold at first, but the warm purple undertones invite contemplation.

Shinohara’s composed work is very different from the emotional color of Nolde’s, but each shows his appreciation of a season that might otherwise be overlooked.

View of “Winter in Color” Mezzanine Installation. Photo by Chelsea Kelly

Besides these two works on paper, you will find a lithograph by Harold Altman (American, 1924-2003); a pastel by F. Usher De Voll (American, 1873-1941); a woodcut by Danny Pierce (American, b. 1920); and a watercolor by Lee Weiss (American, b. 1928). Many of these artists have Wisconsin connections.

And if you are looking forward to warmer weather, don’t give up hope! I suggest that after you take the stairs up from the Mezzanine to the Bradley Collection, head to the left, and on the first wall will be Emil Nolde’s Roses on Path–a beautiful painting of his farm in Seebüll during the summer.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Kornelius Erb (German, Augsburg, ca. 1560-1618). The Erb Tankard, 1580/85. Silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.85. Photo credit John Nienhuis

Terminology

First, a bit about the terminology.

The drinking vessel most associated with Germany is the tankard. A tankard is a beaker with a handle and lid. Without the lid, we’d call it a mug.

In the US, tankards are usually called steins. The word stein in German means “rock”. It comes from the shortening of a German phrase, the most common suggestions being Stein Krug, meaning stone jug or tankard, or Steingut, meaning stone goods.

In German, the word used for a covered mug is Krug.

Tankard is the more general term used by English-speaking scholars, particularly for objects dating from before the end of the nineteenth century. But in general use, stein and tankard are used interchangeably.

And what’s the story behind the cover? The lids on tankards have their roots in health safety. In the 14th century, the Black Death swept through Europe, killing up to half of the population in a few short years. Although the cause of the disease was not understood, attempts to stop the horror led to innovations in sanitation. To keep foreign matter out of beverages, including flying insects, laws were passed in German lands that required a cover for all drinking vessels. A thumb lift was devised in order to make drinking with one hand still possible, and by the time that the laws were no longer necessary and were not enforced, the lid had became an integral part of the design.

The Erb Tankard

This month, we’ll be looking at one of the earliest tankards in the collection. It is called The Erb Tankard because it was made by a famous goldsmith named Kornelius Erb (German, ca. 1560-1618).

Kornelius Erb (German, Augsburg, ca. 1560-1618). The Erb Tankard, 1580/85. Silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.85. Photo credit John Nienhuis

Erb worked in Augsburg, which was an important center for fine decorative arts from the 13th century until almost the end of the 18th century. Augburg’s proximity to gold and silver mines meant that there was money to be made—and the town became an economic powerhouse known for its extremely high-quality gold and silver wares. It was the best of the best. Other examples of tankards made at Augsburg can be found at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the V&A in London, and the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

The The Erb Tankard is not your everyday drinking vessel. It was made for a very wealthy patron to keep in his Wunderkammer (cabinet of curiosities) or his Kunstkammer (collection of fine art). Although it may have been used, most of the time it would have been proudly on display.

What else does The Erb Tankard tell us about the owner? First of all, he was German. In the 16th century, tankards were made in German-speaking lands in central and northern Europe for drinking beer—ordinary ones would be made in wood, pewter, or stoneware. Whoever owned this was proud of that heritage.

The decoration shows that he was a man of current tastes. Renaissance in style, every surface is ornately decorated, encouraging the viewer to explore it all. It also brings together three important stylistic elements of the period: classical, historical, and religious.

The classical past was a significant influence on the art of the Renaissance. The barrel of The Erb Tankard is covered with an all-over geometric pattern similar to those used in ancient Rome. There’s mythology, too: The handle is made from the body of a griffin, a creature from Greek mythology, and the thumb-lift is a little Bacchus (the god of wine) sitting on a barrel—appropriate for a container for an alcoholic beverage!

Kornelius Erb (German, Augsburg, ca. 1560-1618). The Erb Tankard, 1580/85. Silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.85. Photo credit John Nienhuis

In two registers around the tankard are eight portrait heads encircled with laurel wreaths. They depict important rulers of central and northern Europe: Holy Roman Emperor Charles V and his wife; the King and Queen of Denmark; the King and Queen of Sweden; and the King and Queen of Poland. This not only proudly displays the owner’s cultural pride, but it also illustrates his knowledge of European history.

As if all of this wasn’t enough, a religious theme was used for the lid. On the top is a plaque that shows Adam and Eve hiding themselves after eating the forbidden fruit; the underside shows their expulsion from Paradise. This tankard warns against the pleasures of earth, even as it celebrates it.

Kornelius Erb (German, Augsburg, ca. 1560-1618). The Erb Tankard, 1580/85. Silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.85. Photo credit John Nienhuis

Kornelius Erb pulled much of his imagery from printed sources available in 16th century Germany. We’ve come across one of them before on a blog post about the work of artist Virgil Solis of Nuremberg, Germany, who produced over 2,000 prints and drawings. He is best known for his ornament designs that were published in books for other craftsmen to use in decorative arts and architecture. You can see from this print in the collection of the British Museum how Erb used Solis for the portraits (compare Charles V at the left to his medallion on the tankard). The Adam and Eve scenes came from another German printmaker named Heinrich Aldegrever.

How’s that for luxury in both material and visual interest? Next month we’ll see how the art collecting market, international trade, and technical innovations are nothing new—the same thing happened in Europe during the age of the ceramic known as tin-glaze earthenware!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Probably Raeren, Rhineland, Germany. Jug, ca. 1583. Salt-glazed stoneware with later silver mount. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.86. Photo credit John Nienhuis

Imagine yourself back in the late middle ages. And you’re thirsty. You don’t get yourself a drink of water, because most likely the only water available to you is polluted and will probably make you sick. So, instead you get some fermented beverage, such as beer or ale. The fermentation process kills off the bad things in the water and lets you drink with relative safety.

But being an everyday person with little money, your cup is not made out of silver, glass, or leather, or even glazed ceramic. It is made out of unglazed earthenware, which is clay baked hard at a low temperature. Unfortunately, because it is clay, it absorbs some of your ale or beer each time you use it–and eventually, that absorbed liquid will go foul, making anything you drink from the cup taste and smell bad. (The same thing happened with common wood tankards.)

But innovation found a solution to this problem.

In the 1200s, German ceramic producers discovered ways to bring their kilns to a high enough temperature to cause vitrificiation. Vitrificiaton is when the minerals in clay melt together. This means that the porous material becomes nonporous. Not only did this new material not absorb liquid or smells, it was also extremely hard. It was, in fact, as hard as rock. Consequently, it became known as stoneware.

Stoneware does not need a glaze–a mix of materials covering the clay, that melt in the kiln to form a glassy surface–to keep itself non porous. Ceramicists, however, found out that introducing salt into the kiln during the firing of stoneware produced a beautiful shiny surface. Mostly this surface is decorative, although it does help in keeping the vessel clean.

Stoneware became so important for storage and drinking vessels that by the 16th century German stoneware was being exported all over continental Europe, England, and colonial America.

Possibly because stoneware were more expensive than earthenware, the German potters took advantage of the properties of stoneware to make their vessels into art objects. Now, certain types of decorations help identify the origin of the ceramic.

Westerwald, Germany. Krug, 1672. Salt-glazed stoneware. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, L2000.3. Photo credit Larry Sanders

For instance, in the Westerwald area, gray clay is decorated through molds and incising. The areas of relief are accentuated by contrasting areas of gray clay with a dark blue glaze formed from cobalt oxide. The Milwaukee Art museum has two nice examples of Westerwald stoneware in the form of Krugs (German for a handled drinking vessel). One in the Collection, seen above, emphasizes the floral decoration in the color of the clay with a background of deep blue; the front sports a cartouche for an unidentified family or city. The other, seen below, combines a band of blue and gray checkerboard with organic ornamentation, and features a cartouche with the letters “GR”, standing for George Rex, the king of England. The decoration of both Krugs masterfully takes advantage of the bulbous shape of the vessel.

Westerwald, Germany. Krug, 1725–50. Salt-glazed stoneware. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, L2000.4. Photo credit Larry Sanders

In Raeren, the clay is usually covered with an iron-stained slip (watered down clay) which creates a reddish-brown surface. Our lovely late 16th century jug, below, balances tiers of incised lines with a lively scene of peasants dancing around the widest bulge. The frieze is made by a mold, and there are other jugs that used the same mold: the Ma href=”http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/50731.html?mulR=5915#&#8221; target=”blank”>Philadelphia Museum of Art has one, and two other examples have recently been sold at auction here and here.

Probably Raeren, Rhineland, Germany. Jug, ca. 1583. Salt-glazed stoneware with later silver mount. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg, M1991.86. Photo credit John Nienhuis

The scene is based upon the prints of The Peasant Festival by Hans Sebald Beham (German, 1500-1550). The easiest one to match up is the man who holds the hand of a woman and has his other arm raised, seen here (but reversed, because the mold would flip the design when impressing on the clay). At the very far left, you can just make out the two musicians also seen in the print.

So, you can see that the development of stoneware was revolutionary, both in technology and in art. Next month, we’ll take a look at another example of another type of ceramic that shows the power of international trade and technology: tin-glazed earthenware.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Probably Thuringia, Germany, Tankard, before 1754. Tin-glazed earthenware with polychrome decoration and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Albert Finkler M1937.26. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

My post this month is about tin-glazed earthenware. Wait! Don’t run! I know that this is one kind of ceramic that makes the study of decorative arts confusing. So many names, so much technical jargon—it’s a headache! But stick with me for a moment, because I hope to explain it in a way that this not too complicated. The reward is another glimpse into the history art, trade, and technology.

First of all, tin-glazed earthenware has two main parts:

1. Clay. The important thing to remember is that this type of clay is porous even after it is fired. It is called earthenware.

2. Glaze. You need this because it covers the porous earthenware so that it becomes NON-porous. In tin-glazed earthenware, the glaze is made of tin-oxide, powdered glass, and a flux (often lead). In general, here’s what each ingredient does: tin-oxide makes the glaze opaque white; powdered glass makes it smooth and shiny; and flux lowers the melting point of the other materials so that everything flows nicely across the surface (the word flux comes from a form of the Latin verb fluere, meaning “to flow”). The glaze fuses together when fired.

Remember last month when we explored how non-porous stoneware revolutionized ceramic vessels? Well, tin-glazed earthenware is also a non-porous material, but it is one that isn’t quite so sturdy. Since it’s not vitrified, it can chip and break (you can see such damage on the handle of the tankard from Mainz—the glazing has warn away and what you see if the bare ceramic).

But tin-glazed earthenware offers something that stoneware doesn’t: a smooth, white surface that can be decorated with bright colors created by firing a range of pigments made from oxides.

Probably Thuringia, Germany, Tankard, before 1754. Tin-glazed earthenware with polychrome decoration and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Albert Finkler M1937.26. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

As far back as the 6th century B.C., the Babylonians produced earthenware with opaque glazes (like those seen in these tiles at the Metropolitan Museum of Art). The technique was kept alive in Egypt until, by the 9th century, it was raised to prominence in Mesopotamia once again.

Then tin-glazed earthenware spread throughout the Islamic world during the middle ages. This, of course, included Moorish Spain. This time period was also when it started to get all of those names.

The Italians learned of tin-glazed earthenware from examples imported from the island of Marjorca, which was controlled by Spain. Consequently, in Italy it is called maiolica.

The French named the material after Faenza, a town in Italy known for producing it; hence, the French called it faience.

In northern Europe, the technique was brought by Spanish and Italian potters looking for more markets. By the 17th century, the Dutch town of Delft became so well-known for blue and white tin-glazed earthenware, that the ceramic was known just as delft.

The Dutch exported delft to England, where it was called delftware.

Dutch businessmen saw Germany as an untapped market for tin-glazed wares. They convinced German landowners to support opening potteries. The first opened at Hanau in 1661, followed by Frankfurt in 1666. In Germany, the ceramics became known as fayence from the French term. (This is also the term used in Scandinavia and Spain.)

Probably Mainz, Germany, Tankard, ca. 1754. Tin-glazed earthenware with polychrome decoration and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Adolf Finkler M1937.15. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Finally, we’ve gotten to Germany! This is a post about German steins and tankards, after all.

The spread of tin-glazed earthenware shows that there was a great demand for beautifully decorated and brightly colored ceramics. There is another aspect of the popularity, however.

It is no mistake that tin-glazed earthenware mimics the look of porcelain.

Introduced to Europe in the 14th century from China, porcelain was the most elegant and fascinating of materials. It was pristine white, yet translucent, and although it was thin and light-weight, it was amazingly strong and durable.

Nobles across Europe would buy Chinese porcelain and mount it in elaborate metal fittings. It was considered so precious that it was called “White Gold.” They hungered for more, however, and so began a search for the secrets to making porcelain.

But more on that next month.

So, until porcelain could be made in Europe, there was a demand for something that looked like it.

Much of the tin-glazed earthenware from Holland was painted in blue and white to reproduce the look of porcelain. The Dutch were importing the real thing from China, so they knew what people wanted.

German, Covered Pitcher, 1700–40. Tin-glazed earthenware and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Gabriele Flagg Pfeiffer M1997.226. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

The early tin-glazed earthenware produced in German was also blue and white. But even though it is reminiscent of porcelain, there are stylistic elements that are definitely European, such as the use of brushwork and banding. You can see it on this covered pitcher, left.

Later German faience tended to feature multi-colored decorations. Just a few of the examples in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection are: figures with landscape elements (including what looks to be palm trees) on a tankard probably from Thuringia, Germany (first object image, top of post); intricate patterns on a tankard that could have a crest related to the town of Mainz (second object image, top of post); and the special effects from applying color with a sponge seen on a tankard probably from Schrezheim (below left).

Probably Schrezheim, Germany Tankard, second half of 18th century. Tin‑glazed earthenware with polychrome decoration, pewter, and coin silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Dorothy Trommel in memory of her parents, Eunice and Howard Wertenberg M2013.42. Photo by John Glembin

German faience tankards were often decorated by Hausmalers, who were artisans that worked in other fields such as engraving, metalworking, or glass painting. The craftsmen would buy blank white wares that had gone through a first firing and paint them decorations with oxides that would given a second firing at a lower temperature in a home kiln. Then they would sell these tankards in order to make extra money.

Tin-glazed earthenware is just another example of how studying art shows us not only the creative side of the past, but the economic side as well. As I hinted earlier in this post, next month we’ll look at the allure of porcelain and where it fits in to the history of technology and trade in early modern Europe.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Possibly Johann Gregorius Horoldt (German, 1696-1775), Tankard, ca. 1725. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, gilding, and brass. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.1035. Photo: John R. Glembin

Introduced to Europe from China in the fourteenth century, porcelain was the most elegant and fascinating of materials. It was pristine, white yet translucent, and although it was thin and light-weight, it was also amazingly strong and durable. In other words, it was everything that tin-glazed earthenware and stoneware was not.

As you might expect, porcelain imported to Europe were very expensive. To reflect its cost, and because it came in vessel shapes that were not used in the West, nobles would buy Chinese porcelain and then mount them in elaborate fittings made of precious metal.

Porcelain was such a sought after material that it was called “White Gold.” The demand was so great that wealthy European collectors started a search to find the secret to making it.

It wasn’t easy. True, hard-paste porcelain requires the inclusion of a special clay called kaolin. But the craftsmen attempting to make it did not know this, so their process was trial and error, using different types of clay in various proportions and fired at a number of temperatures.

To further confuse the issue, there is another type of porcelain, which is called artificial or soft-paste porcelain. Soft-paste porcelains mimics real porcelain by using white clay mixed with ground glass to make it more transparent–it does not have kaolin.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Possibly Johann Gregorius Horoldt (German, 1696-1775), Tankard, ca. 1725. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, gilding, and brass. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.1035. Photo: John R. Glembin

The first soft-paste was developed in Florence, Italy, under the patronage of the Medici. Some of these ceramics were made between 1575 and 1587, but after this point the technique was abandoned. Production of soft-paste porcelain began again around 1700 in France.

In England, a variation of soft-paste porcelain is bone china, which was developed by Spode in 1799 when bone ash was added to the ceramic, making it more durable and attractive.

But our focus for this post is German drinking vessels, and it is to Germany that we return, and to one of the most important discoveries in European decorative arts history: how to make hard-paste porcelain.

Kaolin, the special clay needed to make hard-paste porcelain, was finally discovered in Saxony in the late seventeenth century. Augustus the Strong, Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, was obsessed with porcelain and purchased large amounts of Chinese and Japanese examples for his palaces in Dresden. He even planned to have one castle, the Japanese Palace, dedicated to showing off his porcelain collections.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Possibly Johann Gregorius Horoldt (German, 1696-1775), Tankard, ca. 1725. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, gilding, and brass. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.1035. Photo: Catherine Sawinski

But he, like so many rulers in Europe, wanted to be able to make porcelain, not just buy it. When Augustus took over the rule of Saxony in 1694, he promptly put a number of craftsmen to work on the problem. In 1709, J.F. Böttger, who originally was brought to the court as an alchemist (because gold gold was just as desirable as white gold), discovered the mixture required to make porcelain. In 1710, Augustus established the royal factory in Meissen. By 1713, the workers at Meissen were producing porcelain for his collection.

Augustus tried to keep the process a secret, because it both raised his prestige among the rulers of Europe, and meant that he could sell works to other nobles and make some money from it. As a result, Meissen held a near monopoly on porcelain production in Europe for almost 40 years, although workers took the secrets to Vienna to found a factory in 1719. Then, in 1747, workers defected from Vienna and spread the knowledge throughout Germany.

The basics of porcelain production are similar to those used with other ceramics: you can either mold a solid clay or slipcast a liquid clay. Then the object is fired at a low temperature to dry it out.

Once porcelain could be made, it was necessary to figure out how to decorate it. The artist Johann Gregorius Höroldt came to Meissen from the rival Vienna factory and developed a process for enameling porcelain in the early 1720’s. The ware can be decorated under the glaze (usually with cobalt blue) or painted with bright enamel colors over the first glaze, with a second firing to fix the enamel.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Possibly Johann Gregorius Horoldt (German, 1696-1775), Tankard, ca. 1725. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, gilding, and brass. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.1035. Photo: Catherine Sawinski

Porcelain can also be fired at high temperature without a glaze, which is called biscuit porcelain, or bisque. It was more expensive because imperfections could not be hidden under the decorative glaze.

In the earliest years of production, only the best porcelain for the royal family was decorated by the Meissen factory itself. Everything else, called a blank, was sold to hausmalers who decorated in their homes, just as was the case with tin-glazed earthenware.

Two types of porcelain wares were made by the royal factory. Sculptural figurines in porcelain were used to replace temporary sugar sculptures made for banquet table decorations (using a luxury like sugar for pure decoration was the ultimate in decadence). Tableware for serving and eating were also made in porcelain.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Possibly Johann Gregorius Horoldt (German, 1696-1775), Tankard, ca. 1725. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, gilding, and brass. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.1035. Photo: John R. Glembin

We are lucky enough to have two early Meissen tankards in the collection. They exemplify two different trends in early eighteenth century porcelain decoration.

The first tankard (above images) has a finely-painted chinoiserie scene, which means that it takes its inspiration from Chinese art. A large group of people in Chinese dress and exotic animals take part in what looks like a formal ceremony of some sort, with musicians and a procession. The animals include monkeys and dogs that look suspiciously like dachshunds in sweaters. In the background is a harbor scene with buildings in the distance.

The main scene is contained in a cartouche that is then surrounded by elaborate tendrels and flowers in gold. On either side of the main image are two smaller figures: on one side, a man smokes an opium pipe while a woman pours tea, and on the other a man interacts with exotic birds.

We know that in 1728, a number of tankards decorated like this were painted at Meissen by Johann Gregor Höroldt, with luster designs in the manner of Johann Freidrich Böttger. They were made for Augustus the Strong to send to the Russian imperial family in exchange for animals for his live menagerie. Although there is no way to know which tankards were included in that gift, it’s clear that the design was popular.

Other examples of tankards decorated in the style are in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and the V&A in London. Some of Horoldt’s original drawings still exist.

On either sides of the handle are scattered motifs from nature: bugs and shells. These were very likely taken from Joris Hoefnagel’s Archetypa Studiaque Patris Georgii Hoefnagelii, 1592, which was republished in the early eighteenth century. Meissen works of this date were known to have used elements from these prints, which were a treasure-trove of designs.

Our second Meissen tankard takes its theme from the classical past. The god of wine, Bacchus, sits upon a barrel wearing only grape vines and lifts a glass of wine in salute to the viewer. For a vessel used to drink an alcoholic beverage, this is very appropriate.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Tankard, 1725–35. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, and silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift and Bequest of René von Schleinitz and the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1995.1. Photo: John R. Glembin

The other two scenes on this tankard, however, show the darker side of the bucholic rendering of the cheery god on the front.

On one side, two men in eighteenth century dress fight violently. One beats the other with a stick, until his face is bloody. Two glasses, from the same set that Bacchus uses on the front, spill wine on the ground. The connection is clear: drinking can lead to violence.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Tankard, 1725–35. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, and silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift and Bequest of René von Schleinitz and the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1995.1. Photo: John R. Glembin

The other scene shows the same two men, one standing up holding a wine jug and holding out a full glass, while the other lies on the ground, vomiting. Again, a graphic representation of what too much alcohol will do!

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Tankard, 1725–35. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, and silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift and Bequest of René von Schleinitz and the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1995.1. Photo: John R. Glembin

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Tankard, 1725–35. Glazed porcelain, polychrome overglaze decoration, and silver. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift and Bequest of René von Schleinitz and the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1995.1. Photo: John R. Glembin

As a testament to its quality, Meissen still produces porcelain today. Its reputation means that the distinctive mark of crossed swords in blue glaze has been copied by other manufacturers. First used in 1720, it is one of the oldest trademarks in existence.

Now that we’ve seen how trade and technology led to the production of porcelain at Meissen, next month we’ll take a leap ahead to the nineteenth century to begin a look at our rich holdings in Mettlach steins and what they mean to Germany. Stay tuned!

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.

Jules Bastien-Lepage (French, 1848–1884), Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer), 1881. Oil on canvas. Miwlaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Mrs. E. P. Allis and her daughters in memory of Edward Phelps Allis L102. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

One of the things that I enjoy about being a curator is that I am always learning something.  Here is one example.

In the middle of August, the Cornish American Heritage Society held their “Gathering of the Cornish Cousins” in Milwaukee.  The event offered talks and workshops on all things Cornish, and one of the organizers had asked me to do a presentation on the artists of the Newlyn School.

I knew a little about Cornwall from visits to the southwestern part of Wisconsin, plus I loved pasties, but I knew nothing about art in Cornwall.  A quick search told me that they were a group of artists that, in the 1880s, formed an art colony in a Cornish fishing village called Newlyn.  So, I said, sure, why not?

And now, after a year of reading about the Newlyn artists and looking closely at the artwork produced by them, I’m so glad that I did!

The late 19th century was a time of immense change in all parts of life, and artists such as those of the Newlyn School were not immune to this.  They, like everyone else, had to respond to the social and environmental changes brought on by the industrial revolution.  One of the key questions was, what did it mean to be modern?

Part of the answer, for the Newlyn artists, was influence by the French artist Jules Bastien-Lepage.  And Bastien-Lepage just happens to be an artist represented in the Layton Art Collection with his 1881 painting, Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer).

Jules Bastien-Lepage (French, 1848–1884), Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer), 1881. Oil on canvas. Miwlaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Mrs. E. P. Allis and her daughters in memory of Edward Phelps Allis L102. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

A number of Bastien-Lepage’s paintings, after they were shown at the official Salon in Paris, were put on display in London; among them include Les Foins (Hay Gatherers), Joan of Arc, and Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer).  They were very controversial.  Both French and English critics of the established art world were troubled that the extremely detailed backgrounds made with broken brushstrokes contrasted with the smoothly painted and finely modeled figures.  In particular, Les Foins was disturbing in the realistic—and not very beautiful—face of the girl, the awkward poses of both figures, and the overall feeling of fatigue in the scene.  It was not the idealized, uplifting view of life or the moralizing narratives that the mainstream were used to seeing.

Jules Bastien-Lepage (French, 1848–1884), Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer) (detail), 1881. Oil on canvas. Miwlaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Mrs. E. P. Allis and her daughters in memory of Edward Phelps Allis L102. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

Furthermore, Bastien-Lepage was dedicated to painting en plein air, which is a French term meaning “in the open air.”  Essentially, this meant that he painted out-of-doors, directly onto the final canvas.  Up until the 19th century, artists would make drawings and small oil sketches outside and then bring them back to the studio to make a finish painting.  In the quest to show nature in all its glory, artists, most notably those associated with the Barbizon School, began painting outside, on-site.

For young artists in England, the avant-garde French painter Jules Bastien-Lepage offered a new—and modern—vision.  They flocked to Paris to study in the studios of established artists, and then during the summer they traveled to the county to escape the hot city and find interesting subject matter, which they painted en plein air.

Here’s where it all comes together: Many of the artists that worked at Newlyn at some point between the 1880s and 1890s were among those who were influenced by Bastien-Lepage and studied on the continent.

The best example would be the Irishman Stanhope Forbes.  He began his schooling in London, and then after studying in France, he returned to England to find a good location to paint figures in a picturesque setting.  He spent his almost 70-year career in Newlyn, and early on became known as the father of the Newlyn School.

Forbes’s 1885 submission for the Royal Academy exhibition was his first major painting created in Newlyn, and it is considered to be his masterpiece.  Fish Sale on a Cornish Beach shows the influence of Bastien-Lepage and other European artists in his painting style, coloring, and use of ordinary people as models.  Forbes was also committed to painting en plein air, and the work was completely painted on site over many months.  Plein air painting was one of the first shared interests of the artists who worked at Newlyn.  They also explored how to show natural light indoors and focused on a rural subject matter that was distanced from the industrialization of England.

Although Fish Sale on a Cornish Beach was admired by English critics and the public, it was rejected for purchase for the National Collection at the Tate, because, according the contemporary periodical The Magazine of Art, the painting was “too positively the outcome of a foreign school.”  It was just too French for the English!

It’s so great to get a new perspective on favorites in the Milwaukee Art Museum Collection.  Maybe someday we’ll see Newlyn artists hanging side by side with paintings by Bastien-Lepage.

Catherine Sawinski is the Assistant Curator of Earlier European Art. When not handling the day-to-day running of the European art department and the Museum’s Fine Arts Society, she researches the collection of Ancient and European artwork before 1900.