A number of artists featured in the special exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums are represented in the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum.  This is the first in a series of blog posts that will highlight Milwaukee’s paintings during the run of the exhibition.

Antonio Balestra (Italian, 1666–1740), The Meeting of Telemachus and Calypso, ca. 1700. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, bequest of Eliza Eliot Fitch M1955.3. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

Active in the very end of the 17th century and the first part of the 18th century, Antonio Balestra was an Italian painter of the “late Baroque.”

What does that mean?  Well, it means that he worked during a time of transition between the theatrical narratives and dramatic light and shadow of the high Baroque (think Caravaggio) and the bright, elegant style called Rococo (think Tiepolo).

Accordingly, the Milwaukee Art Museum’s painting by Balestra, The Meeting of Telemachus and Calypso, is filled with larger-than-life figures (Baroque) elegantly arranged and beautifully modeled with light colors (Rococo).

Balestra originally trained in Venice, where the loose brushwork and atmospheric color of Titian had informed the work of generations of artists.  Early in his career he spent time in Rome, where he was influenced the classical restraint of Renaissance artists such of Raphael.  He eventually returned to Venice, where he had a long and successful career.

The subject of our painting comes from a 1699 book by the French author François Fénelon.  Called The Adventures of Telemachus, it was based upon characters from the Greek epic poem The Odyssey.

Antonio Balestra (Italian, 1666–1740), The Meeting of Telemachus and Calypso (detail), ca. 1700. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, bequest of Eliza Eliot Fitch M1955.3. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

The female figure is the nymph Calypso, well-known for delaying the Greek hero Odysseus on his way home from the Trojan War.

The young man is Telemachus, who, when his father Odysseus does not return home after the Trojan War, goes out to search for him.  He is aided in his quest by the goddess Athena disguised as an old man named Mentor.

When Telemachus lands on the island, Calypso immediately falls in love with him.  Meanwhile, Telemachus himself falls in love with the nymph Eucharis.  Despite this, he eventually leaves the island in order to do his duty and continue his search for his father.

I love the composition of The Meeting of Telemachus and Calypso.  All of the figures are close to the viewer, making us feel like part of the scene, and they crouch, twist, and balance in ways that at first make sense but upon further investigation are completely unnatural.

Antonio Balestra (Italian, 1666–1740), The Meeting of Telemachus and Calypso, ca. 1700. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, bequest of Eliza Eliot Fitch M1955.3. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

They cascade across the canvas from the upper left to the lower right.  Calypso leans back, dramatically enveloped in drapery and seductively revealing a shoulder, her one foot lifted gracefully off the ground and her other daintily resting on a toe.  The putto in front of her points to Telemachus while Cupid sits behind her, his bow raised, symbolizing the immediate love that the nymph will have for the young adventurer.  In the meantime, beautiful (and barely dressed) Telemachus holds a traveling stick in one hand and pushes a shrub out of the way with the other.  He looks off into the distance for his father, unaware of Calypso’s gaze.

Although today the story of Telemachus is not very familiar, Fénelon’s book, written as an attack on the French monarchy, was enormously popular for many decades and inspired a number of artists.  Just a few examples include:

• In 1782, Angelika Kauffmann (Swiss, 1741-1807) painted a pair of paintings (here and here) for Monsignor Onorato Caetani in Rome.
• The Corcoran Gallery of Art owns a late work by Benjamin West (American, active England, 1738-1820).
• A masterful neoclassical painting by Jacques-Louis David (French, 1748-1825) is in the collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum.

When our collection galleries reopen in 2015, you might see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Antonio Balestra painting.  In the meantime, you can see a lovely example of Balestra’s work in the feature exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Art from Glasgow Museums, on view at the Milwaukee Art Museum through January 4, 2015.

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.

A number of artists featured in the special exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums are represented in the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum.  This is the second in a series of blog posts that will highlight Milwaukee’s paintings during the run of the exhibition.

Andrea Locatelli (Italian, 1695–1741), Landscape with a River and a Group of Figures Near A Roman Altar, ca. 1730. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William D. Kyle, Sr. M1967.126. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

Imagine it is the early 18th century.  You are an Italian noble and need to decorate your villa.  Who do you hire to make some paintings for you?

For many, the answer would have been Andrea Locatelli (Italian, 1695-1741).  He’s not a household name today, but during his lifetime, Locatelli was famous.  The venerable Colonna family of Rome, who were great art patrons, owned 80 of his paintings!

The Milwaukee Art Museum has a lovely pair of paintings from Locatelli’s late career: Landscape with a River and Group of Figures Near A Roman Altar and Mountainous Landscape with Shepherds and Animals.

Hanging on the wall, the paintings would have looked like windows overlooking a view of the Italian countryside: lush trees framing Roman ruins, hills in the background, a river in the mist.  It’s definitely Italy, but it’s an idealized Italy—you would not be able to recognize this particular location, because it doesn’t actually exist.

To the dramatic landscape, Locatelli has added small-scale figures.  In the river landscape, some well-dressed travelers and country women stand around a half-nude figure of a man gesturing dramatically.  In the mountainous landscape, shepherds and their dog make their way through the valley.

There is no elaborate narrative here.  The figures are meant to add to the charm and human interest of the paintings, the same way that the ancient ruins do!

Overall, Locatelli’s paintings evoke the balanced elegance of the Italian Rococo.  But they come from contentious beginnings.

Andrea Locatelli (Italian, 1695–1741), Mountainous Landscape with Shepherds and Animals, ca. 1730. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William D. Kyle, Sr. M1967.125. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

In the 1600s, a group of northern European artists came to Rome and established successful careers.  They brought with them the style of genre painting—ordinary people in everyday situations—which was so popular in their homeland.  One artist, Pieter van Laer (Dutch, 1599-ca. 1642), was nicknamed il Bamboccio (large baby) due to his disproportionate body.  The group of painters became known as the bamboccianti, and eventually any small-scale genre painting became known as bambocciate.  Here’s an example by Karel Dujardina (Dutch, 1626-1678).

The Italian aristocracy and bourgeoisie couldn’t get enough of bambocciate.  Italian artists, however, were highly critical of inclusion of common people from contemporary Italian life into art.  They considered it ugly and in poor taste.  The money to be made from these paintings, however, meant that Italian artists began to adopt the subject matter.  Locatelli is an artist of a later generation who specialized in this type of painting.

But it is clear that genre is not the primary interest for Locatelli.  He was also influenced by artists who worked in the classicizing landscape tradition, creating idealized landscapes peopled with attractive figures in order to form a beautiful painting.  French painter Gaspard Dughet (1615-1675) is just one of the landscape painters that inspired Locatelli.

When our collection galleries reopen in 2015, you might see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s paintings by Andrea Locatelli.  In the meantime, you can see a lovely example of Locatelli’s work in the feature exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums , on view at the Milwaukee Art Museum through January 4, 2015.

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.

A number of artists featured in the special exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums are represented in the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum. This is the third in a series of blog posts that will highlight Milwaukee’s paintings during the run of the exhibition.

Antonio Mancini (Italian, 1852–1930), On the Eve of Her Wedding, ca. 1882. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. S. S. Merrill M1919.33. Photo by John Glembin.

In researching a museum’s collection, the story behind the acquisition of an artwork can sometimes be just as interesting as the artwork itself. The Milwaukee Art Museum’s On the Eve of Her Wedding by Antonio Mancini (Italian, 1852-1930) is a great example.

Mancini began his artistic studies at the age of 12. In 1875 and again in 1877, he visited Paris—then the center of the avant-garde world—where he met French Impressioninists Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917) and Edouard Manet (French, 1832-1883). Mancini’s loose, expressive brushstroke and dark color choices were clearly influenced by Manet. At one point, John Singer Sargent (American, 1856-1925) declared Mancini to be the greatest living painter.

In his 1880s work, On the Eve of Her Wedding, a bride-to-be has paused in her wedding preparations, a light-colored thread dangling from the spray of orange blossoms she is arranging for the next day.

Her face rests on her hand, which in turn lies on the back of a chair. She is lost in her own thoughts, a smiling flitting across her face, her eyes sparkling in excitement, her cheeks red with anticipation. Mancini has perfectly captured a happy young woman in a private moment.

Although Mancini has chosen a traditional genre subject, the composition feels very modern. The woman’s black dress is hard to distinguish from the dark background, but the light-colored details so important to the subject—her face, her hand, her flowers, and her thread—pop out at the viewer rather than blend together into a whole. The tipping of her head at a 90 degree angle to the direction of the canvas is slightly disorienting: her face pulls the viewer’s attention to the edge of the painting rather than the middle.

On the Eve of Her Wedding came to the Museum in 1919 from Mr. and Mrs. S.S. Merrill of Milwaukee. Mr. Merril was Sherburn Sanborn Merrill, an executive of the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway. In 1879, he founded the railroad shops—where the workers would build and repair railway equipment—in the Menomonee Valley. To provide housing for the over 2,500 workers and their families, in 1883 he created Merrill Park between 27th and 35th Streets, south of Wisconsin Avenue and north of the Menomonee Valley.

In the early 1880s, Mr. and Mrs. Merrill traveled to Italy, where they met Antonio Mancini in person. The artist was known for his popular genre paintings and his portraits. Both of the Merrills sat for portraits, and they were so happy with the result, a second one of Mrs. Merrill was commissioned. (If you’d like to see more of his work, both the Wisconsin Historical Society and the Milwaukee Public Library have a painted portrait of S.S. Merrill by Mancini. These portraits were ordered from Mancini by Mrs. Merrill from a photograph after Mr. Merrill died in 1885.)

While in Italy, the Merrills purchased On the Eve of Her Wedding. Mrs. Merrill gave it to the Milwaukee Art Institute, the predecessor of the Milwaukee Art Museum, in 1919. The director of the Institute, Dudley Crafts Watson, wrote a glowing article about the acquisition in the Milwaukee Journal from December 7 of that year.

Antonio Mancini (Italian, 1852–1930), On the Eve of Her Wedding, ca. 1882. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. S. S. Merrill M1919.33. Photo by John Glembin.

Watson called Mancini a “brilliant Impressionist technician.” He goes on to say that “the color of his pictures was rich and old with a scintillating light and a dazzle of life that the old masters never attained. Painting with a full brush and often the palette knife there was nothing tight or smooth to his expression.”

Watson finished his announcement with the declaration that Mrs. Merrill’s gift was “proof of the place the institute has made for itself in the community and of its permanency.” He was right–here we are almost 100 years later, able to enjoy Mancini’s painting now part of the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum.

When our collection galleries reopen in 2015, you might see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s painting by Antonio Mancini.  In the meantime, you can see a lovely example of Mancini’s work in the feature exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums, on view at the Milwaukee Art Museum through January 4, 2015.

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.

Antiveduto Gramatica (Italian, 1571–1626), St. Dorothy, late 16th–early 17th century. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Alfred Bader M1971.23. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

A number of artists featured in the special exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums are represented in the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum. This is the fourth in a series of blog posts that will highlight Milwaukee’s paintings during the run of the exhibition.

Italian baroque painting can be bold, dramatic—and downright gruesome.  Artememsia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes or Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath are two great examples. The theatricality is in part a result of the demands of the Catholic Church, which was reacting to the Protestant movements spreading throughout Europe.  Their response was called the Counter-Reformation.  In order to encourage a return to Catholicism, the Church commissioned art that would capture the viewer’s attention with drama and emotion.

But not all Italian Baroque paintings are blood and guts.  Some can draw in the viewer with a quiet, contemplative air.  One such painting is the Milwaukee Art Museum’s St. Dorothy by Antiveduto Gramatica (Italian, 1571-1626).

That said, St. Dorothy’s story does have its violence.  She was an early Christian virgin who was matyred in the city of Caesarea in Cappadocia, which is in present-day Turkey.  She was brought before the governor, who persecuted Christians, and was told she must worship the pagan gods or die.  Her response was that she would gladly accept death in order to join Christ, her betrothed, in the garden of Paradise where fruits and roses are always fresh.

When led away to her death, Dorothy was mocked by a lawyer named Theophilus.  He asked for some of the fruits and flowers when she got to heaven.  At the place of her execution, a young boy suddenly appeared with a basket full of fruit and flowers even though it was winter.  Dorothy asked him to take the basket to Theophilus and tell him who sent it.  Theophilus ate the heavenly fruit and was converted, eventually becoming a martyr himself.

Antiveduto Gramatica (Italian, 1571–1626), St. Dorothy, late 16th–early 17th century. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Alfred Bader M1971.23. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Despite the threat of death, in our painting Dorothy turns her head gently to side, her eyes downcast, elegantly holding out her basket of fruit and flowers.  Although a young girl, she awaits her fate calmly.  Her pose conveys her tranquil inner thoughts.

Aspects of Baroque style add to the mood of the painting.  The use of strong chiaroscuro—or the use of light and dark from one light source—to show St. Dorothy as three-dimensional against a dark background makes her seem like a lone actor on a stage.

She is show three-quarter length at practically life-size and very close to the picture plane.  Standing in front of her, you feel that she is right there in your space.  Her basket comes out towards us, as if she is handing it over.  Talk about an emotional appeal to join her in the faith of the Catholic church!

The great artist Caravaggio that I mentioned at the beginning of this post actually studied for a short time in Antiveduto Gramatica’s workshop.  After the younger artist started his own career, the teacher adopted some of the popular techniques of his star pupil.  When Caravaggio died at the young age of 37, Gramatica was one of the many artists who filled the demand for paintings of his style.  Although we are not lucky enough to have a Caravaggio, we do have a lovely Gramatica to represent the Italian Baroque.

When our collection galleries reopen in 2015, you might see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s painting by Antiveduto Gramatica.  In the meantime, you can see a lovely example of Gramatica’s work in the feature exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums, on view at the Milwaukee Art Museum through January 4, 2015.

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.

Francesco Solimena (Italian, 1657–1747), Madonna and Child with St. Januarius and St. Sebastian, ca. 1700. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art M1964.35. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

The black death. It terrorized Europe for centuries. Although the knowledge of modern medicine means that plagues are not widespread today, the power of disease and its strain on society is still evident.

In times of stress, we often turning to tradition and religion. In an earlier blog post, we explored this reaction in 14th century Florence through our painting by Nardo di Cione. The Milwaukee Art Museum has another artwork in the collection that illustrates this response in late 17th century Naples.

The painting is Madonna and Child with St. Januarius and St. Sebastian by the great Baroque artist Francesco Solimena (Italian, 1657-1747). (Solimena’s work is also featured in our current exhibition, Of Heaven and Earth.) The Milwaukee painting—because of its large scale (over 8 feet tall!)—was most likely envisioned to be an altarpiece for a church.

The active yet elegant composition forms an arc with the most important figures, the Virgin Mary and Jesus, at the apex, perched on top of a cloud. Below them on the left is St. Januarius (a bishop who was martyred around 305 AD); on the right is St. Sebastian (an early martyr who was shot with arrows). All of the figures are classically modeled, surrounded by billowing drapery and lit by a glowing light—it is clear why Solimena’s style made him the preeminent artist of his time.

But there is more going on in this altarpiece than just two saints showing their devotion to the Virgin Mary and her son. Look at the emotion in their poses. The head of St. Januarius tips up, his hands held together in prayer, his legs extremely active almost in a lunge. Meanwhile, St. Sebastian’s expression is earnest, and he holds his arms dramatically outstretched. These saints are beseeching the holy pair, who respond by looking directly down into St. Sebastian’s eyes.

Francesco Solimena (Italian, 1657–1747), Madonna and Child with St. Januarius and St. Sebastian, ca. 1700. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art M1964.35. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

Both St. Januarius, the patron saint of Naples, and St. Sebastian, who despite being shot of arrows was nursed back to health, represent divine intermediaries for suffering humans. Their supplication of the Virgin and Child is on behalf of the people of Naples, who were battling the plague in the years around 1700 when this painting was made.

Just imagine: when installed in a church, the viewer would stand in front of and below the painting in order to pray.  The two saints would pass the message to the Virgin and Christ.  The power of the painting is emphasized by the life-size figures. It becomes less an object to look at than an experience to take part in.

When thinking about the experiential aspect of our Solimena painting, it is much easier to understand how its emotional and spiritual power could help to counteract the pain and stress caused by the plague that ravaged Europe for hundreds of years.  If you’d like to learn more about this subject, its historical context was explored in a 2005 exhibition at the Worcester Art Museum, which included Madonna and Child with St. Januarius and St. Sebastian.

With the holidays upon us, evidence of the value of tradition is all around us.  The end of another year encourages us to take a look at the past in order to understand the present–and give us hope for future.

Best wishes for the season!

When our collection galleries reopen in 2015, you might see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s painting by Francesco Solimena. In the meantime, you can see an example of Solimena’s work in the feature exhibition Of Heaven and Earth: 500 Years of Italian Painting from Glasgow Museums, on view at the Milwaukee Art Museum through January 4, 2015.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Christian Warth (German, active 1854–1892). “1395” Stein, 1885. Stoneware with colored slip and glaze decoration, gilding and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Dorothy Trommel in memory of her parents, Eunice and Howard Wertenberg M2013.43. Photo credit: John Glembin.

Over the past year, we’ve taken a look at some of the German drinking vessels in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection.  The subjects have ranged from luxurious silver tankards to early stoneware vessels, and from high-quality Meissen porcelain to the prized tin-glazed earthenware that was developed to mimic it.

Now we’ve come to the end of the 19th century, the time of the most dramatic changes for the German drinking vessels.  This was due to a powerful combination of events.

The first was the formation of the German Empire in 1871 under Wilhelm I, King of Prussia.  For the first time, many of the nations that identified with a German culture became part of one nation, and they needed to figure out what that meant.

The second is the onset of the industrial revolution.  Germany experienced major social changes in a relatively short amount of time.  Factories were built and drew huge numbers of people from the country to cities, creating great economic inequality and crowded urban areas.

However, the transition from a mainly agrarian country to an industrialized nation did offer the possibility of economic prosperity.  The rise of a middle class that had more money to spend meant a demand for more goods.  And technological advances also meant that objects such as steins could be produced faster and less expensively.

Although the availability of hard liquor to the working poor was considered by many to be a problem—in the worst case scenario, the factory man drinks the income needed to support his family—the local tavern or club was also a way for men to pass the time pleasantly with others who had the same political beliefs or social background.  This was especially important in cities, where men were thrown into a large group as strangers.  After all, alcohol is a great social lubricant!

Eduard von Grützner (German, 1846–1925). The Card Players, 1883. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz M1967.67. Photo credit: Larry Sanders.

Although pub owners would supply their customers with steins of glass or pewter, they would also store a customer’s personal steins on a shelf.  Steins became a modest luxury that would show your prosperity and social affiliations.

Although smaller steins were meant to be used, the decorative nature of many steins also made them a collectible to be displayed.  Larger wares would often be given as a special gift or were commissioned as a memento.   You can see some of these decorative vessels in this photograph of a middle class dining room in Berlin from around 1880. These wares are displayed by the up-and-coming in a way that, in earlier centuries, only royalty could afford to do: it’s the middle class version of the “cabinet of curiosities.”

Mettlach and other German decorative arts on top of cabinets in Captain Pabst’s study. Photo courtesy of Pabst Mansion.

Another customer for steins are the immigrants in America who were keen to celebrate their roots.  In Milwaukee, we have a great example at the Pabst Mansion, built in 1890 by a German immigrant, where drinking vessels are proudly on display.  In the historic house, now open as a museum, an assortment of late 19th century wares made in Germany can been seen on the cabinets in Captain Pabst’s study.

Although men were almost exclusively the tavern customer, the development of the beer garden and beer hall meant that beer drinking became an important part of family leisure time.  Drink was a part of German gatherings, whether it was at a social club, a meeting of a professional guild, or a Sunday afternoon at home.

In Milwaukee, Schlitz’s Palm Garden and Pabst’s Park promoted local breweries while offering a space for all people to enjoy.  It is this combination of good-will, drink, and food that leads to the appreciation of Gemütlichkeit–a warm, cheerful space–within German communities.

All of these factors resulted in an increased demand for drinking vessels.  The ability to mass produce them resulted in an explosion in the number of producers to make ceramics and the variety of wares available on the market.

As you might expect, then, the majority of the Milwaukee Art Museum’s drinking vessels were made in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.  The collection includes examples of pottery, stoneware, and porcelain steins from a number of factories, such as C. G. Schierholz & Söhn; Ernst Bohne Söhne; and Hauber & Reuther.  But the vast majority of the holdings in this area were made by the Villeroy & Boch Company.

Villeroy & Boch had factories in a number of locations, but it is the one in Mettlach, in southwestern Germany on the Saar River, that became a gold standard for steins.  (You can see an example at the top of this post.) The high-quality stoneware, called Mettlach after the town, was collectible in its own time.

Marks on the bottom of a Mettlach stein. Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Christian Warth (German, active 1854–1892). “1395” Stein, 1885. Stoneware with colored slip and glaze decoration, gilding and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Dorothy Trommel in memory of her parents, Eunice and Howard Wertenberg M2013.43. Photo credit: the author.

The factory was housed in a Benedictine Abbey with roots dating back to the middle ages.  The Abbey became a trademark of sorts for the company’s stoneware, and an outline of the Abbey’s medieval chapel was used in the factory’s marks for many years.

Villeroy & Boch kept their process a closely guarded secret, and after company records were destroyed in the 1920’s, the particulars were completely lost.  The fascinating detail and beautiful colors of their wares not only made them a commercial success, but also won them critical acclaim at public exhibitions, including awards at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893.

Although best known today for their seemingly unlimited number of stein and pitcher designs, Mettlach stoneware was also available in decorative plaques, vases, and pokals.  Each work was listed in the company catalogues by a number that was also marked on the base; it is these numbers that are used as the title.

Next time we’ll take a closer look at some Mettlach steins—stay tuned!

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Heinrich Schlitt (German, 1849–1923). “2765” Stein, 1902. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.848. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

Last time, we looked at the historical context for artwork in late nineteenth century Germany. In 1871, Germany officially became a unified country. This time, we’ll look at the cultural ramifications of the unification and how it impacted art.

Although German-speaking princes had been allied for centuries, the individual provinces needed to strengthen their commitment in order to counter military and economic competition from other countries such as Austria and France. But just because the people in the new country spoke German and shared much in the way of their cultural identity didn’t mean that they felt like a big happy family.  And the disruptive forces of the industrial revolution did nothing to help the sense of confusion and frustration.

The people of the German Empire needed to ask themselves: what does it mean to be German? The imagery on Mettlach steins of the time offers some interesting answers to that question.

Some steins use inspiration from the distant past for their subject matter.  This shows a pride in the traditions of German culture—with roots back to the middle ages—as well as nostalgia for a simpler time.  This past is often called “altdeutschen” or “old Germany”.  When it appears in art, it is called historicism.

For instance, at the beginning of this post is a beautiful stein that shows a medieval knight mounted on a majestic white horse enjoying a tankard of beer.  The romantic notion of the past is echoed in the lid in the shape of a castle turret.

This large-scale pitcher shows successful German hunters in extravagant Renaissance dress—just look at that ermine trim!  The man on this side is toasted by none other than the ancient goddess of the hunt, Diana, who sits on top of a beer barrel.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836). “2205” Covered Pitcher, 1897. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, gilding, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.666. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

A noble couple in elegant dress from the 16th century is featured on this pitcher.  The traditions of the past are celebrated by the man who is practicing falconry, using the bird of prey to hunt.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836). “1690” Covered Pitcher, 1889. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.729.

Historicism is not the only way that steins reveal the German exploration of identity.  National symbolism can be seen in this Mettlach stein.  The Imperial Eagle of Germany is front and center.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), design attributed to Otto Hupp (German, 1859–1949). “2075” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, gilding, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.567. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

There is further pride in German modernity: This stein celebrates two very important technological developments that Germany embraced: the telegraph and the railroad.  The eagle holds telegraph poles with his claws—you can see the glass insulators at the top of the poles with the lines strung between them.  On the eagle’s shield is the winged wheel that represents the German railroad.

The stein would have been marketed as an “occupation” stein for a man working for the railroad–a way to show pride in your job and your country.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), design attributed to Otto Hupp (German, 1859–1949). “2075” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, gilding, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.567. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

On the lid is a ceramic inlay that shows a train engine hard at work with the motto “Nur immer einen gutne Zug!”.  This is a pun.  In this context, it means “always a good draught,” but zug in German also means train, so it refers to both the beer and the railroad.  Appropriately enough, the train is hauling a giant stein!

With the fun and camaraderie that comes with drinking, it is not a surprise that decorations on steins are often meant to get a laugh (remember our Meissen Bacchus tankard!).  Next time, we’ll look at more examples of Mettlach with humorous imagery.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), design attributed to Franz von Stuck (German, 1863–1928). “2106” Stein, 1894. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, platinum luster, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.890. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

Drinking games have long been a source of entertainment.  One only has to look at the proliferation of puzzle jugs dating back to the sixteenth century to see this.

Around the turn of the twentieth century, German companies appealed to their customers with many types of humorous steins.  As we saw last time, sometimes they made a joke by means of a pun.

Here is another Mettlach stein the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection using a common German turn of phrase in a funny way.  It shows monkeys in a cage, and the handle is even made out of a monkey.
Since the seventeenth century, monkeys were often used in art to lampoon the actions of humans (find out more in this post about our painting by Paul Friedrich Meyerheim).  That’s no different on this stein!

The complete meaning becomes clear when you look at the lid. We see a man shake the hand of a monkey surrounded with the saying “Gleich und Gleich gesellt sich gern”.  In English, this translates to “equals like to keep company”, or, as I like to say, “birds of a feather flock together.”  The humor here is both meant to elicit a laugh but also be a warning not to imbibe too much.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), design attributed to Franz von Stuck (German, 1863–1928). “2106” Stein, 1894. Stoneware, with colored slip and glaze decoration, platinum luster, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.890. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

And as you may remember from previous blog posts about steins, these objects were often used to identify a man’s social network, making the warning even more appropriate!

The second Mettlach stein we’ll consider in this post uses Ancient Egyptian imagery for its inspiration. That might seem odd, but the Germans were at the forefront of new developments in archaeology, so using it on a stein is both evidence of nationalistic pride and proof of a good education.

In this case, the clever designer Fritz Quidenus (German, 1867-1928) bases his decorations on an Egyptian offering painting.  These offering scenes are founds in tombs, where the deceased is given things he’ll need in the afterlife, such as food.

On the stein, Quidenus shows a man sitting at the table is offered four tablets that look like menus.  He scratches his head, uncertain what to order.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Fritz Quidenus (German, 1867–1928). “2583” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, colored slip decoration, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.390. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

The sides of the stein tell the rest of the story: the same customer is passed out at the table, his cup still in his hand—clearly he’s had a few too many.  And check out the fake “hieroglyphs” at the top, showing eating utensils and foot items.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Fritz Quidenus (German, 1867–1928). “2583” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, colored slip decoration, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.390. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

On the other side he’s involved in a tavern brawl, chased out of the room with one of the waitstaff wielding a flail, or threshing stick, the table toppling before him.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Fritz Quidenus (German, 1867–1928). “2583” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, colored slip decoration, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.390. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

The lid of the stein shows one of the waitstaff carefully filling a beer stein.

Villeroy & Boch (Mettlach, Saarland, Germany, established 1836), designed by Fritz Quidenus (German, 1867–1928). “2583” Stein, 1900. Stoneware, colored slip decoration, and pewter. Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.390. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

The comic-strip-style narrative is obviously meant to be funny!

Next time we’ll look at another type of stein meant to amuse: character steins.

VEB Porzellanmanufactur Plaue (Plaue, Germany, established 1816). “Singing Pig” Stein, ca. 1900. Glazed hard paste porcelain, colored underglaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.984. Photo by Melissa Hartly Omholt.

Ready for some more laughs? In this post, we’ll be looking at more German steins meant to be amusing.

The industrial revolution of the nineteenth century meant that more goods could be produced quickly and more people could afford those goods. Developments in the technique for shaping ceramics meant that steins didn’t have to be a standard shape—they could be molded in all sorts of ways. And, in a never-ending quest for novelty, they were!

Enter the character stein. At first glance, character steins do not even look like drinking vessels. They look more like a figurine. The body and lid create a sculptural whole, with the lid an integral part of the figures.

The subject matter ranges widely. There are animals, such as singing pigs (see above left) and frogs.

There are historical figures, such as Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, the founder of the Turners, the German gymnastics association, or Otto von Bismarck, first chancellor of the German Empire.

Other types include clowns, nuns, and elves (like the one below).

German. “Elf” Stein, ca. 1900. Earthenware with colored slip and glaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Dorothy Trommel in memory of her parents, Eunice and Howard Wertenberg M2013.44. Photo by John R. Glembin.

There are even vegetables. Radishes were very popular, shown either happy or sad. This may seem odd, until you learn that salted thinly sliced radishes were a common beer hall snack.

And then there is the skull. Why in the world would someone want a stein shaped like a skull?

Ernst Bohne Söhne, Rudolstadt (Thuringia, Germany, 1854–ca. 1920). “Skull” Stein, ca. 1900. Glazed hard paste porcelain, colored underglaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.948. Photo by John R. Glembin.

Well, since some steins were geared for certain occupations—such as the railroad stein covered in a previous blog post—a skull stein could appeal to a doctor.

However, skulls were often given as gifts to college graduates in all fields.

Ernst Bohne Söhne, Rudolstadt (Thuringia, Germany, 1854–ca. 1920). “Skull” Stein, ca. 1900. Glazed hard paste porcelain, colored underglaze decoration, and pewter. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation M1962.948. Photo by John R. Glembin.

Evidence for this can been seen in our skull stein, which shows the skull resting on a book. One side reads Gaudeamus Igitur; the other says, Juvenes dum sumus. This is Latin for “so let us rejoice while we are young,” the beginning of De Brevitate Vitae, or On the Shortness of Life, a popular hymn sung at university graduation ceremonies in Europe.

It seems an appropriate joke, then, to give a graduate a drinking vessel in the form of a skull. It will encourage the recipient to enjoy life now, and literally follow the motto “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die”!

Maria-Theresia Thielen (Flemish, 1640–1706), Still Life with Parrot, 1661. Oil on canvas. 21 × 27 in. (53.34 × 68.58 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Mr. and Mrs. John Schroeder in memory of their parents. M1967.41

This still life is probably one of the only signed paintings by Flemish flower painter Maria-Theresia Thielen. It is truly a jewel of the collection!

Maria-Theresia Thielen was one of three daughters of flower painter Jan Philips van Theilen. Her two sisters also became painters. The skillful and interesting composition of our painting sets it apart from most flower paintings by the Thielen family; this may be why Maria-Theresia prominently signed it here on the pillar.  There you can see “M.T. von Thielen” along with F. (for fecit, which is Latin for “made in”), Ano (short for Anno Domini, or A.D.) and the year, 1661.

Maria-Theresia Thielen (Flemish, 1640–1706), Still Life with Parrot, 1661. Oil on canvas. 21 × 27 in. (53.34 × 68.58 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Mr. and Mrs. John Schroeder in memory of their parents. M1967.41

Detail of Maria-Theresia Thielen (Flemish, 1640–1706), Still Life with Parrot, 1661. Oil on canvas. 21 × 27 in. (53.34 × 68.58 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Mr. and Mrs. John Schroeder in memory of their parents. M1967.41

The gray stone of the column and urn beautifully set off the rich colors and careful details of the parrot, flowers, and fruit. The tendrils of the grapevine, nasturtium, and morning glory are rhythmic and delicate.

Flower paintings such as these were a specialty of painters in the Netherlands during the 17th century. They capture the fleeting beauty of the natural world and the enjoyment it can give. Also, it reminded the viewer that human life is transient. Paintings like this combine natural materials that are at their peak at different times in the year—seemingly real, but those who were well-educated would know that it is a complete construction.

Giving the painting a truely exotic touch is the parrot. His coloring—rich green with red splashes on his wings and a yellow face—adds to the colorful array of the fruit and flowers. Also, the curve of his wings and tip of the head mimic the curves in the rest of the painting.

Detail of Maria-Theresia Thielen (Flemish, 1640–1706), Still Life with Parrot, 1661. Oil on canvas. 21 × 27 in. (53.34 × 68.58 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, gift of Mr. and Mrs. John Schroeder in memory of their parents. M1967.41

The parrot, of course, is not native to northern Europe and would have been owned by someone of means. The upper classes loved these birds not only for their color and rarity, but also because of their ability to mimic humans.

Parrots were included in northern still life paintings just as other objects were: they were a symbol of economic power and visual extravagance. It is not a coincidence that the most flamboyant and expensive tulips were called parrot tulips.

The parrot is holding a short branch with two raspberries on it. This is probably a reference to a classical story related by Pliny the Elder about the Greek painter Zeuxis. Zeuxis’s painting of grapes was so realistic looking that the birds flew at them in order to eat them. Not only would this be an allusion that would appeal to the well-educated owner of the painting, it is a reflection of Thielen’s belief in her skill as an artist.

I think it’s a very apt comparison, don’t you?

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.

George Vicat Cole (English, 1833–1893), At Arundel, Sussex, 1887. Oil on canvas, 32 1/2 × 52 1/16 in. (82.55 × 132.24 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of J.M. Durand. L1888.17 Photo credit: John R. Glembin

For those you who where able to see the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Salon-style hang in Gallery 10 a couple of years ago, this painting may look familiar.  This is because it is a Layton Art Collection painting that was brought out of storage for that display.

Happily, a number of paintings from that special installation will be included in the European galleries once we reopen, and we anticipate that this painting will be one of them!

The scene is a pastoral landscape at Arundel, which is an English market town in Sussex, about 50 miles southwest of London. At the left, a farming family harvests grain.  Meanwhile, sheep graze along the country road. A plow stands abandoned on the far right.

George Vicat Cole (English, 1833–1893), At Arundel, Sussex, 1887. Oil on canvas, 32 1/2 × 52 1/16 in. (82.55 × 132.24 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of J.M. Durand. L1888.17 Photo credit: John R. Glembin

This type of landscape was extremely popular in both Europe and America in the late 19th century. It is part of the tradition of glorifying country life that began with French Realists of the mid-19th century such as Jean-Francois Millet. At that time, the industrial revolution was drawing people from villages to dirty, crowded urban areas with the hopes of a more prosperous life.  Those in the city began to feel a nostalgia for the beautiful and peaceful countryside, a time and pattern of life that many felt had past. Of course, these paintings also idealized the work done in the country, glossing over its difficult, dangerous aspects.

At Arundel, Sussex manages to balance a number of elements while creating a lovely mood. The hills off in the distance are hazy with the damp, warm air of late summer. The glorious golden grain seems to go on forever—it makes you feel a bit sorry for the family that has just started to harvest it. The sheep are relaxed and comfortable, some of them sleeping in the tall grass. Bundles of branches lean against an old fence–they might be fuel, or they could be material to fix the fence. The meandering road disappears in the distance between trees planted long ago.

Detail of George Vicat Cole (English, 1833–1893), At Arundel, Sussex, 1887. Oil on canvas, 32 1/2 × 52 1/16 in. (82.55 × 132.24 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of J.M. Durand. L1888.17 Photo credit: John R. Glembin

What really makes this painting magical to me is the huge tree centered on the canvas.  It visually shelters the figures below, its majesty seems to be the focus of the painting. It reminds me of some of the wonderful old oaks you see in Wisconsin’s Kettle Moraine.  As an Englishman proudly painting the countryside of his native land, I think that Vicat Cole felt some of the same power and beauty in this tree.

George Vicat Cole is not a well-known artist, but he was a fixture in late Vicatorian England. He was the eldest son of the self-taught landscape painter George Cole. In 1855, the younger George quarreled with his father and left the family home. He adopted his mother’s maiden name, Vicat, to set himself apart from his father.

As he started his independent career, Vicat Cole was especially influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites. This short-lived but very important group of avant-garde English artists included William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. In particular, the Pre-Raphaelite artists were committed to depicting nature as they saw it.

Detail of George Vicat Cole (English, 1833–1893), At Arundel, Sussex, 1887. Oil on canvas, 32 1/2 × 52 1/16 in. (82.55 × 132.24 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of J.M. Durand. L1888.17 Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Despite his interest in the Pre-Raphaelite movements, Vicat Cole’s career was not ground-breaking. He exhibited almost yearly at the Royal Academy between 1853 and 1892, being elected an Associate in 1870 and a member in 1880. He became good friends not only with John Everett Millais, but also Frederick Leighton.

With his popularity and his reputation, therefore, it is not surprising that one of his paintings was given to the Layton Art Gallery in 1888!

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). Augustus III, King of Poland, 18th century. Glazed porcelain, with polychrome overglaze decoration, and gilding, 30 × 16 1/2 × 13 1/4 in. (76.2 × 41.91 × 33.66 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.364. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Believe it or not, this imposing sculpture is made out of a material that we usually associate with teacups and figurines for our end tables.  That’s right–this two-and-a-half feet tall man is made out of porcelain!

But it’s not just any porcelain.  It’s porcelain made at the factory in Meissen, Germany.  You may remember Meissen as one of the most important names in European porcelain production from my series on German drinking vessels.

Just to recap, Augustus the Strong, Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, was obsessed with porcelain and purchased huge amounts of Chinese and Japanese examples for his palaces in Dresden. But he, like so many rulers in Europe, wanted to be able to make what was dubbed as “white gold” for himself.

Augustus took over the rule of Saxony in 1694 and promptly put a number of scientists to work on the problem. Kaolin, the special clay needed to make hard-paste porcelain, was finally discovered in Saxony. 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 (near Dresden).  By 1713, the workers at Meissen were producing porcelain for his collection.

Augustus tried to keep the process secret, because not only did it raise his prestige among the rulers of Europe, but it also meant that he could sell works to other nobles and make some money from it. 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, a worker defected from Vienna and spread the knowledge throughout Germany.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710). Augustus III, King of Poland, 18th century. Glazed porcelain, with polychrome overglaze decoration, and gilding, 30 × 16 1/2 × 13 1/4 in. (76.2 × 41.91 × 33.66 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.364. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

So, what’s the story behind this large-scale figures totally different from the tableware we’ve shown on the blog before?

The best known large-scale Meissen sculptures depict animals, such as this lioness at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or this vulture at the Art Institute of Chicago. This is because around 1728 Augustus the Strong decided to mimic a live menagerie—many European nobles had one full of exotic animals that were gifts from foreign lands—in porcelain.

The talent of the craftsmen at the Meissen factory is astounding.  Within just a couple of decades of figuring out how to make porcelain, they were able to make these huge porcelain objects. It required just the right mix of materials and a careful technique to make sure that the sculptures were not destroyed at some point in the process. Even those that passed quality inspection would have cracks appear during the firing process—filled in later with plaster to disguise them—and they were left all white because the temperature changes required for firing colors were too difficult to add to the variables. Paint was added after the firing over the glaze.

If you look carefully at our figure, you can see the firing cracks in the base and the lower part of his coat.

So who is depicted in our important and rare example of Meissen porcelain? He is Augustus III, the only legitimate son and successor of Augustus the Strong, the driving force behind the Meissen porcelain manufactory. Upon his father’s death in 1733, Augustus III took his father’s titles.

The identification derives from a well-documented painting by the court painter Louis de Silvestre in the Gemaldegalerie in Dresden. As King of Poland, Augustus III is wearing Polish costume: he stands confidently in a dramatic greatcoat with a sash across his chest and holding a fur hat. He wears the Order of the Golden Fleece around his neck. This order was a knighthood formed in the 15th century and by the 18th century was a de factor honor given by the Roman Catholic Church to the highest members of the nobility.

Detail of Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710). Augustus III, King of Poland, 18th century. Glazed porcelain, with polychrome overglaze decoration, and gilding, 30 × 16 1/2 × 13 1/4 in. (76.2 × 41.91 × 33.66 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.364. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Only three other examples of this sculpture of Augustus III are known to exist. Two of them are white without paint. One sold at Christie’s on October 21, 2004, the other is owned by the Staaliche Kunstsammlungen in Dresden. A painted one is in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Since large-scale porcelain was a trademark of 18th century Meissen, it is a very desirable for collectors. And, of course, it is also very rare. Because the large-scale figures of Augustus III are so unusual, the date for individual pieces is difficult to state. So much of 18th century Meissen has been reproduced over time and experts ten to assume that the porcelain is later unless there is a very good reason. Upon the recommendation of an outside researcher in Germany, we date our sculpture to the 18th century, but we continue to conduct research.

No matter what the date, our Meissen figure of Augustus III will certainly command attention when he is out in the galleries. As patron of the great Meissen porcelain factory, he will be a fantastic focal point for an installation of Meissen porcelain!

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.

G.H. van, Jr. Hengel (Rotterdam, Holland, active 18th century). Chandelier, 1710-30. Brass, cast iron, 42 1/2 × 36 3/4 in. (107.95 × 93.35 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art, M1974.232 Photo credit: P. Richard Eells

This fantastic chandelier is currently on view in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s east galleria.  It hangs there to represent the European collections in our reinstallation display–and I think that is does a great job!

Dating to the early 18th century, the chandelier is typically Dutch in form. The design is a perfect example of baroque restraint, from its curved arms, a baluster-shaped shaft, and the balancing ball with finial. Overall, it is graceful and well-proportioned—it was clearly made by a master metalworker. The glossy dark patina is also well-done and in great condition. The chandelier even offers a mystery.  It has an inscription in Dutch which says: “From the Young Men’s Association of Lage Zwaluwe to the Congregation of that town / At the foundry of G.H. van Hengel, Jr. in Rotterdam.”

Lage Zwaluwe is a village in southern Netherlands. Because the chandelier is dedicated to a congregation, it probably hung in the village church.  Since the 15th century, Lage Zwaluwe has had a church dedicated to St. John the Baptist Church. A seventeenth century church was destroyed in WWI, and the current church was built in 1951. So far, no more records related to the church have uncovered about the presentation or location.

In addition, it can be challenging to find much information about the foundry of G.H. van Hengel, Jr.  A “G.H. van Hengel en Zoon” (G.H. van Hengel and son) won an award for cast metal objects at the National exhibition in Haarlem in 1861. A church in Delft has a clock by the same company dated 1834.  The Rijksmuseum has a ship’s bell in its collection from around 1854.  Clearly, more research needs to be done on this!

G.H. van, Jr. Hengel (Rotterdam, Holland, active 18th century). Chandelier, 1710-30. Brass, cast iron, 42 1/2 × 36 3/4 in. (107.95 × 93.35 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art, M1974.232 Photo credit: P. Richard Eells

When confronted with a chandelier like this, it’s interesting to stop and think about the history of lighting interior spaces. Imagine having to light the candles every time it was used—and in a church there would have been many of them.  Below, you can see a similar chandeliers in our painting of a church in Delft, Holland by Hendrik Cornelisz. van Vliet (Dutch, ca.1611–1675).  Even then it wouldn’t be as bright as what we are used to with electric lights. It is reported that four hundred brass chandeliers were in the Cathedral in Antwerp alone—but the candles were so precious that they were put away in the daytime so they wouldn’t melt.

Hendrik Cornelisz. van Vliet (Dutch, ca.1611–1675). Old Church in Delft, ca. 1670, Oil on canvas, 36 × 42 1/2 in. (91.44 × 107.95 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of William and Sharon Treul M1999.81. Photo by Efraim Lev-er.

Thinking of candles burning in our chandelier explains the drip trays that are integral to the design: to catch the candle wax. The next time you are in the Galleria, look up at it from below and notice the single hole in each drip tray.  This would allow air flow in order to make the candle burn better and brighter.

Dutch chandeliers are known for their simple elegance, most likely due to the unornamented interiors that were preferred by the Protestants (again, see the plain white interior of the church above). Although our chandelier has a dark patina, many have a polished finish which would have reflected the light.

Dutch chandeliers have a relatively simple design aesthetic, especially when comparing it to a chandelier of 18th century France. French and Italian chandeliers included glass and crystal that would make the candlelight sparkle. Such a fancy style, however, would never do for the understated Dutch.

The style of Dutch chandeliers has continued to be popular right up to the present day. We can still buy brass chandeliers that look just like the ones from the 18th century–I’ve even seen similar ones at Home Depot!

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), Two-Handled Urn, 1814-60. Porcelain with hand-painted overglaze decoration and gilding. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.248. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Last week, we looked an amazing example of large-scale Meissen porcelain sculpture.  This time, we’ll look at another beautiful work of Meissen, this two-handled urn.

This sizable object has a great presence (it’s about a foot tall).  What immediately draws attention is the beautifully painted decoration.  The base and rim are painted in a Renaissance revival-style panel with purple-pink and light olive green tones highlighted with the white of the porcelain and shiny gilding. And then there is the main frieze, which shows an ancient Greek myth called the Calydonian Boar Hunt.

The story of the Calydonian boar hunt was told and retold during antiquity–most famously in the Roman poet Ovid’s Metamorphoses. When King Oeneus of Calydon failed to honor the goddess Diana with offerings, she released a terrifying boar on his land. The king’s son, Meleager, assembled a group of renowned warriors to slay the beast. Several of the huntsmen were killed or maimed before Meleager finally defeated the boar.

Meleager can be seen here in the middle with other hunters and their dogs. On the other side are women offering a boar head to Diana at a sacrificial altar.

Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Two-Handled Urn, 1814-60. Porcelain with hand-painted overglaze decoration and gilding. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.248. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

Reverse of Meissen Porcelain Manufactory (Dresden, Germany, established 1710), Two-Handled Urn, 1814-60. Porcelain with hand-painted overglaze decoration and gilding. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of the René von Schleinitz Foundation, M1962.248. Photo credit: John R. Glembin

The myth was well-known to artists who studied ancient art, for the Calydonian boar hunt was one of the common narratives used on ancient Roman sacarphagi. Myths that focused on death and triumph over death—particularly those that focused on a hero rising to the occasion—were extremely popular for decorating a final resting place.

Still, the subject matter is on the unusual side, so it made me go looking for more uses of the myth. I did find a porcelain vase that came up for auction in 2007 that has the same composition on it.  It looks as though the same design was used for both vases. The vase that was sold in 2007, however, is not marked as Meissen. Our urn is definitely marked as Meissen; on the bottom are crossed swords in blue under the glaze. What does this mean?

What I think has happened here is that an accomplished porcelain painting studio has used the same design on two different porcelain blanks.  One of the blanks came from the Meissen factory, the other from another maker.

As if this extravagant and high-quality painted decoration wasn’t enough, the urn has another interesting element to it: the use of snakes for the handles. A number of Meissen vase shapes used snake handles in the nineteenth century.  Some examples include this one with a floral decoration and this pair in bright yellow-green. They were such a popular design element that Meissen has a specific term for it—schlangevasen—literally “snake vases”!

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.

Christopher Dresser (English, 1834-1904) Manufactured by Watcombe Terracotta Clay Company (Torquay, Devon, England, established 1867) Pitcher, designed 1870-75; produced by Watcombe of Torquay. Terracotta or red stoneware, gilding 7 1/8 × 5 1/2 × 5 1/4 in. (18.1 × 13.97 × 13.34 cm) . Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Daniel Morris and Denis Gallion M1991.323

In 1898, the artists periodical The Studio called Christopher Dresser “perhaps the greatest of commercial designers imposing his fantasy and invention upon the ordinary output of British industry.” This seems an appropriate description for an Englishman who was interested in art but first trained in botany, and then found inspiration for his designs both in the ancient past and traditions of Japan.

Looking at two of Dresser’s designs in the collection of the Milwaukee Art Museum–a pitcher produced by the Watcombe Terracotta Clay Company and a claret jug produced by Hulkin & Heath–you can see how he applied his own personal motto to his work: truth, beauty, power. The sleek and angular vessels lack the decoration that most people associate with the Victorian period, which would have been at its height in the 1870’s.  They look like something from the 20th century!

It may surprise you then, that Dresser was also known for his interests in flat patterning.

Dresser was just as likely to use highly-decorative surfaces.  For instance, here is a vase he designed for Minton in 1868 or a flask designed for Wedgwood around 1873

His use of patterns was inspired by ancient cultures, particularly Egypt, which was in the height of revival in England. One source of these patterns was the architect and designer Owen Jones, one of the most influential design theorists of the 19th century.  Jones’s important publication, The Grammar of Ornament,  grouped patterns by culture such as Persian, Greek, Chinese, and Egyptian.

Dresser was also hired a number of times as an interior designer known for his Arts & Crafts style.  In fact, although much of it doesn’t survive, Dresser’s most successful work was done in wallpaper and textile designs: two examples are this fabric at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and this wallpaper in collection of the Henry Ford Museum. For a short time, he even had a workshop producing furniture.

So, what’s going on here?  Dresser can’t be easily pigeon-holed as proto-modern or Arts & Crafts.  He would say that he is using rules of design—from many sources—to produce beautiful things for everyone.

Christopher Dresser (English, 1834-1904), Manufactured by Hukin & Heath (Birmingham, England, established 1885), “Crow’s Foot” Claret Jug, designed October 3, 1878. Silver plate and glass, 9 5/16 × 6 1/2 × 4 1/4 in. (23.65 × 16.51 × 10.8 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Purchase, by exchange M1998.75 Photo credit: Historical Design.

In fact, he readily accepted machines as a useful way to improve peoples’ lives. He felt that using machines meant that more people could be exposed to artful domestic objects. This is in direct opposition to proponents of the Arts & Crafts movement such as John Ruskin and William Morris, who believed that good design only came from hand-producing everything.

Dresser believed that a functional objection is beautiful if it functions as it should. If that meant it should be simple in line, then that is what it should have.

He also was found inspiration in Japanese decorative arts. He traveled to Japan and collected Japanese objects. Through his mass-produced objects, he got the Western world interested in Japanese design. He respected Japanese “breadth of treatment, simplicity of execution and boldness of design.” The interest in the visual culture of Japan would also be expressed in Victorian styles, such as the Aesthteic movement.

Also, for Dresser, the cost of the material didn’t matter. The Watcombe factory in Torquay, a seaside town in Devon, was proud of their beautiful red clay and chose designs that highlighted it. The humble clay fit nicely with Dresser’s interest in simple materials and showed off the clean lines of his designs extraordinarily well–see top photo in this post. Meanwhile, the claret jug (middle photo) uses a brand-new material—silver plate—which allowed him to contrast the shiny metal with the clear glass without adding the cost of using pure silver.

Dresser’s focus on the geometric comes from function and Japanese design, but it also comes from the past. The Claret Jug uses crow’s feet for the base—commonly used in ancient metal work. The glass body has rounded shoulders and a pointed bottom, which suggests the shape of an ancient Roman amphora. Even the squared off handle is reminiscent of ancient pottery made simply and for a practical purpose.

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.

Claude Monet (French, 1840–1926). Waterloo Bridge, Sunlight Effect, ca. 1900 (dated 1903). Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Bequest of Mrs. Albert T. Friedmann M1950.3. Photo credit: John R. Glembin.

One of the important areas of museum research is that of provenance, or the history of ownership.

Why is it important to know who owned an artwork? Well, for a number of reasons.

First, it can provide evidence that a work is authentic. When buying a Monet, if it can be traced back through history to the artist, you can be sure your investment is worth it!  (I’ll share more about the provenance of our own Monet, left, in a future post.)

Studying provenance also gives us insight into the history of tastes and collecting. Believe it or not, artists that are esteemed today (like Johannes Vermeer) were not necessarily well-known or widely collected in earlier centuries. Studying who owned the work of such artists can teach us much about social, economic, and political history.

Finally, it establishes proof of ownership. If you know the provenance of an artwork, you won’t spend a lot of money on a painting that had been stolen.

Because a museum must take good care of the objects in its collection (we call this stewardship), the mandate for provenance documentation is usually included in written policies.  To help museums in understanding the best practices required of them, professional organizations also provide guidelines that emphasize the need for provenance research. In particular, European art requires this type of ongoing investigation–we’ll see why in a moment. This means that checking, documenting, and uncovering the history of ownership of our artworks is one of my main job duties.

Provenance research can be exciting. It can be boring. It can be satisfying. It can be frustrating. But it is crucial, and luckily, I enjoy doing it!

I’ve touched on provenance in some previous posts (including Miss Frances Lee and a portrait attributed to Anthony Van Dyck and his workshop). Today’s post launches a series that will highlight some of the interesting provenance cases in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Collection.

Before we dive into the series, I want to share a bit about the history of provenance. I mentioned that research into provenance is essential to prove ownership. For European art, this is particularly pertinent because of the fate of artworks during times of war and unrest.

Looting is sometimes opportunistic—people taking treasures because of their value.  But looting is also a way for the victor to show power over the vanquished. Buildings, artifacts, and artwork are crucial to the identity of a culture, and what better way to break the spirit of a people than though destroying and stealing these cultural expressions?

Let’s look a few examples of particularly influential looting.

Relief showing triumphal procession with the spoils of Jerusalem. Arch of Titus, Roman Forum, ca. AD 81. Photo by the author.

In ancient Rome, a victorious general would enter the heart of the empire with his soldiers carrying plunder and leading prisoners. This display of power provided proof of his conquests, earned the respect of the Roman people, and claimed the power and glory that victory entailed—not to mention the profit that he could make by selling the riches. The Arch of Titus in the Roman Forum includes a relief showing a triumphal procession made after the sack of Jerusalem (right).  The soldiers carry the booty that the Romans took from the city–including a large menorah, which you can see raised high above their heads.

Later on–between 1796 and 1812–Emperor Napoleon of France mandated the looting of artwork from enemies during his various military campaigns. Using the Ancient Roman precedent for his imperialist policies, Napoleon saw this as a way to not only help pay for war, but to also raise the morale of French citizens.

Albumen silver print of the Apollo Belvedere, a Roman marble copy from ca. mid-2nd century AD of a Greek bronze from 330–320 BC. Photograph ca. 1854–55 taken by James Anderson (British, 1813–1877). Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

The Louvre, at that time recently opened, was to be the showplace for these riches.  The most famous example of Napoleon’s plundering of artwork was in Italy. The Treaty that Pope Pius VI signed with Napoleon demanded that many of the art treasures of the Vatican would be sent to France, including the Apollo Belvedere (left) and Raphael’s Transfiguration. After Napoleon’s defeat, English officials returned much of artworks to their origin.

Even today, looting of art and cultural material happens in places of unrest. In August 2013, the Mallawi Museum in Egypt, which holds artifacts from Tell el-Amarna, the capital city founded by Akhenaton around 1350 BC, was broken into during protests. About 600 artifacts are missing and about the same number were damaged during the attack. In January, Italian police recovered 5,000 ancient artifacts that had been looted from illegal digs for selling on the international market. Just last month, the Mosul Museum in Iraq was ransacked by ISIS militants. They destroyed many important ancient sculptures from the Assyrian and Akkadian cultures.

Museums, as you can imagine, must therefore be informed and proactive in finding out where their collections come from, no matter when they were accessioned.  It’s not only good for us, it means that we are being ethical in our decisions and doing the right thing!

In my next blog post, we’ll look more at the period of art looting that is most familiar to many: the Nazi period in Germany.

This post is the second to introduce a series that that will highlight some of the interesting provenance cases in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Collection. 

Adolf HItler presents Hermann Goering with The Falconer, 1880, by 19th century Austrian painter Hans Makart. Library of Congress.

To fully understand how important provenance research is for museums, we will need to look more at the period of art looting that is most familiar to many: the Nazi period in Germany.

When Adolph Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in 1933, the new regime began laying the groundwork which would allow for the systematic looting of cultural material in the lands controlled by the Reich—and would lead to 20% of the art in Europe being confiscated between 1933 and 1945.

In the quest to rid Germany of those considered inferior, the removal of property rights through laws became a key way to disenfranchise. For instance, Jews were required to register their property with officials. Then they were legally stripped of their citizenship, leaving the property “ownerless.” Then, this property could be confiscated by the government. In other cases, Jewish families were forced to sell their art for a fraction of its true value.

Art was of particular interest to Hitler and his right-hand man, Hermann Göring.

As part of his vision of cultural cleansing, Hitler sought to rid Germany of art created during the Weimar Republic (1924-1930). The decadence of the period was maligned and the art deemed degenerate. This included French and German Cubism, Expressionism, and Impressionism.

German loot stored in church at Ellingen, Germany found by troops of the U.S. Third Army. 4/24/45. National Archives RG 111-SC-204899.

These modern arts were replaced with what was called “Volk art,” seen to be an expression of the collective and not an individual.  Also acceptable were Old Flemish and Dutch masters; medieval and Renaissance German art; Italian Renaissance and baroque art; eighteenth-century French art; and nineteeth-century German realists.

Art became a very important commodity, especially during the war. Exportation of paper money was banned, and art became the currency of those leaving German-held lands. Confiscated art, particularly art that was deemed degenerate, was sold by the government to raise money.

Hitler systematically looted art that he admired in preparation for his planned Führermuseum. This art museum would have been part of a major arts complex built in his hometown of Linz, Austria.

Meanwhile, Hermann Göring was building his own art collection at his county estate called Carinhall. It is estimated that by the end of the war, he had a collection of over 4,000 artworks.

As more and more art was taken from its owners and the destruction of World War II bombing spread throughout Europe, the Nazis began to store the treasures in caves and salt mines. Below is a famous photograph of Allied General Dwight D. Eisnhower accompanied by Gen. Omar N. Bradley and Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr., inspecting art that had been stolen and hidden in a salt mine.

General Dwight D Eisenhower, Supreme Allied commander, inspects art treasures looted by the Germans and stored away in the Merkers salt mine. National Archives RG 111-SC-204516.

If you are interested learning more about the looting of artwork during World War II and the efforts to return it, the film The Rape of Europa is a good place to start.

As you can imagine, for both legal and ethical reasons, it is very important to know the provenance of artworks during the years 1933-1945. If an artwork was known to be in Europe before this period, it is crucial to try to figure out who owned it and when, because the probability is high that it was taken from its rightful owner.

Because the issue is almost overwhelming in its scope, there are a number of organizations and resources that offer assistance to museums, collectors, and those looking for lost artwork.

For instance, the Art Loss Register is the world’s largest private database of lost and stolen art, antiques and collectables. The Art Loss does not only deal with Nazi-looted art, but it is a key component of its scope. In general, this registry helps recover stolen works and deter future thefts. The Art Loss Register has helped recover over $320 million of stolen items.

As part of the Milwaukee Art Museum’s on-going provenance research, every year we submit European works from our collection that existed before 1945. The submissions include object information, the provenance we have on file, and a photograph. The researchers at Art Loss then search their records. Sometimes they can offer more information on the provenance; sometimes they come back with questions that require us to conduct more research. When due diligence has been done, the Art Loss confirms that there is no claim on the painting and keeps the information in their database.

This is the main way that the Milwaukee Art Museum makes sure we continue working on this major undertaking. It’s slow and complicated. Although more archival resources become available online regularly, and new discoveries are made (such as the artwork found in Cornelius Gurlitt’s home), there are plenty of repositories that require traveling around the world to see. And even then, you might not find anything.

Next time, we’ll take a look at one of our paintings that has an interesting provenance—including a Nazi connection.

Jacques Lipchitz (French, b. Lithuania, 1891–1973, active in the United States), Theseus, 1942. Hollow bronze cast. height: 23 3/4 in. (60.33 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. William D. Vogel M1956.80. Photo credit: Larry Sanders. © Estate of Jacques Lipchitz, all rights reserved.

Knowledge of classical mythology is one of those subjects that will always help the student of art history, no matter what period you study. Over the last few years, I have explored mythological subjects in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection represented in ancient Greek hydriae; Baroque decorative arts and painting; and nineteenth century German ceramics.

Modern art is no exception. We have to look no further than the sculptures of Jacques Lipchitz (1891–1973).

Jacques Lipchitz was a Jewish artist from France who was born in Lithuania. He was classically trained in Paris, although he soon worked in a cubist style, such as Sailor with Guitar in the collection of the Albright-Knox Art Gallery.

Lipchitz was extremely successful through the 1920’s and the 30’s. When Germany invaded France in 1940, Lipchitz and his wife emigrated to New York, and his work became autobiographical. He used a number of classical myths to reflect his experiences, such as the Rape of Europa and Prometheus.

The Lipchitz sculpture in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s collection with a mythology theme is Theseus.

In antiquity, Theseus was an important hero because of his place in the legendary history of Greece’s most powerful city, Athens. He was the son of Aegus, king of Athens, but was raised without knowledge of his identity. When he was an adult, Theseus traveled to Athens to claim his place as son of the king. Along the way, he performed many feats.

Theseus battling the Minotaur, a detail from a Attic Black-Figure Neck Amphora dated about 550 B.C. Attributed to Group E (Workshop of Exekias) (Athens, Greece, active 560-540 B.C.). Terracotta. The J. Paul Getty Museum 85.AE.376. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

The most famous of Theseus’s feats occurred after he was living in Athens again. Every nine years Athens was required to send tribute to Crete in the form of seven youths. There, they would be devoured by the monster known as the Minotaur. The Minotaur was the offspring of Pasiphae, the wife of the Cretan king, Minos, and a bull. When the Minotaur was born, Minos locked it in the labyrinth. The tribute of Athenians had begun in the distant past when Minos conquered Athens.

As the hero, Theseus kills the Minotaur in the labyrinth and then finds his way out with the string that the Cretan king’s daughter, Ariadne, had given him.

In his bronze sculpture, Lipchitz shows the moment when Theseus kills the Minotaur. Traditionally, the Minotaur is shown with the body of a man and the head of a bull (see vase painting at above right). Lipchitz, however, does not do this. Instead, he fuses the two figures together into one.

This was deliberately done. Lipchitz wrote that Theseus is all about war. Because he was a Jewish artist who fled Europe at the beginning World War II, it is probably not surprising that he identified the Minotaur as Nazi leader Adolph Hitler and Theseus as French leader Charles de Gaulle.

Jacques Lipchitz (French, b. Lithuania, 1891–1973, active in the United States), Theseus, 1942. Hollow bronze cast. height: 23 3/4 in. (60.33 cm). Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. William D. Vogel M1956.80. Photo credit: Larry Sanders. © Estate of Jacques Lipchitz, all rights reserved.

Because the monster is part of Theseus, when killing the Minotaur, it is almost as if the hero is killing part of himself. For Lipchitz, this meant that everyone has a part of Hitler in themselves which one must keep killing to keep it under control. By making this image, and then recreating it in multiple casts in long-lasting bronze, it was as if the artist was killing Hitler over and over again.

Lipchitz’s use of an ancient myth in such a personal way shows how powerful such stories can be. The Milwaukee Art Museum’s sculpture is often on view in the Baumgartner Galleria–the next time you visit, be sure to look for it!

Jan Victors (Dutch, 1619–after 1676), The Marriage Trap, ca. 1640–60. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg M1974.233. Photo credit: John Nienhuis, Dedra Walls.

Jan Victors (Dutch, 1619–after 1676) was probably a student of the famous Dutch Golden Age artist Rembrandt (Dutch, 1606–1669). Just like his contemporaries, Victors created works with various popular subjects, including religious scenes, portraits, and genre paintings.

The Milwaukee Art Museum has a market scene in its collection which falls into this last category. The Marriage Trap is set along the familiar canals of Holland. A peasant wedding party is purchasing a fish for the ensuing celebration.

But the Dutch loved layering painting with many layers of symbolism–often for a humorous result.  Victor’s ability in combining realism with humor is illustrated by the context and placement of the fish.  It is most likely intended as a sexual metaphor!

Recently, The Marriage Trap was on our list for submission to the Art Loss Register. A quick look at the thick object file—where we keep records and correspondence related to one artwork—showed me that there was some untangling to do! So, I carefully read through everything, looked for more resources, and double checked it all before organizing it in a clearly stated entry for our collection database.

The most recent owner is well-known to us. The painting was given to the Milwaukee Art Museum in 1974 by Richard and Erna Flagg. The Flaggs also gave the Museum two world-renowned collections: Renaissance decorative arts and sculpture and Hatian art.

At the time of the donation, the painting was attributed to Jan Sieberechts (Flemish, 1627–ca. 1700), who painted landscapes in the Italian style. A comparison with examples of his work at the Tate or the National Gallery in London shows that The Marriage Trap was not by the same artist.

Jan Victors (Dutch, 1619–after 1676), The Marriage Trap, ca. 1640–60. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg M1974.233. Photo credit: John Nienhuis, Dedra Walls.

The painting’s current attribution to Jan Victors was made in 1977. That summer, two experts in Dutch art independently made the same call. The first was Seymour Slive, director of the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard University. The second was Julius Held of Barnard College.

The attribution to Victors was published by Werner Sumowski in the six volume catalogue Gemälde der Rembrandt-Schüler (Paintings of the Rembrandt School). Published in 1983, this invaluable resource lists the paintings by 99 artists who worked at the time of or shortly after the time of Rembrandt. In 1985, Debra Miller echoed the attribution when researching her Ph.D. dissertation on Jan Victors.

Jan Victors (Dutch, 1619-after 1676), The Greengrocer’s Shop De Buyskool, 1654. Oil on canvas. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, Purchased with the support of the Vereninging Rembrandt, SK-A-2345.

Comparing The Marriage Trap to other paintings by Jan Victors shows why this attribution makes sense. Take, for instance, a Village Scene with Cobbler at the National Gallery, London or The Greengrocer’s Shop De Buyskool at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam (right). Victors tended to use a linear style and a particular color palette. His genre subjects are full of details to the point of almost looking cluttered. The figures are solidly built and use emphatic gestures. On top of all that, Victors painted the fishmonger theme a number of times, another point for the attribution of the painting here in Milwaukee.

By now, you might be asking, why spend so much time on the attribution of the painting when we are looking for the provenance?

This is because paintings are often re-attributed to different Old Masters artists over time. It’s crucial to know the timing and reasoning behind any changes, to both fully understand the painting and to look for more information in the right places. After all, if we didn’t know that the attributed to Victors occurred in the 1970s, we might search earlier records only for paintings by Victors–thus making our research inaccurate.

The same caveat applies to the title of an artwork. Over time, this painting has been known as The Marriage Trap; Village Scene; Village Scene with a Fishmonger; Fischverkäuf; and Der Fischverkäufer auf dem Dorf.

Because Richard and Erna Flagg were Milwaukee donors, we do have some files related to their collection in our archives. I checked those to see if there was any more information about where the Flaggs had gotten the painting, but unfortunately, there was nothing…

But don’t worry, my research didn’t stop there. Stay tuned for Part 2 of this series for my discoveries about the ownership history of The Marriage Trap!

This post is part of a series that that will highlight some of the interesting provenance cases in the Milwaukee Art Museum’s Collection. 

Jan Victors (Dutch, 1619–after 1676), The Marriage Trap, ca. 1640–60. Oil on canvas. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Richard and Erna Flagg M1974.233. Photo credit: John Nienhuis, Dedra Walls.

Last time we looked at The Marriage Trap’s provenance and attribution just before and since its acquisition by the Milwaukee Art Museum. That’s usually the easiest part.

In this post, we’ll see how piecing together the ownership of a painting requires pulling information from a number of sources, thinking critically about what we find, and then sometimes making an educated guess (noted as such, of course).

Each work of art in a museum has an object file kept by a registrar, which houses any information, documents, and ephemera related to the artwork. In the object file for The Marriage Trap, there is a photocopy of the entry for our painting in Werner Sumowski’s Gemälde der Rembrandt-Schüler (Paintings of the Rembrandt School)–the important reference that I mentioned in my last post. Sumowski writes: “Herkunft: Verst. V. Mautner-Marhof, Wien 27.11.1927, Nr. 58 m. Abb: J. Ochtervelt”. Whoa! That’s not only in German, but is full of abbreviations. What does it all mean?

“Herkunft” is the German work for provenance. Aha! So what’s after that must be related to the history of ownership. “Verst.” is short for versteigert, which means “sold at auction”. “V. Mautner-Marhof, Wien, 21.11.1927” is the name, location and date of that auction. So the sale was called V. Mautner-Marhof, took place in Vienna, and was held on November 21, 1927 (remember in Europe, the date proceeds the month in numerical notation). “Nr. 58” is the item number in that sale (known as a lot number). “m. Abb” is short for “mit Abbildung”, which is German for “with reproduction”—so we know that the painting was pictured in the auction catalogue. “J. Ochtervelt” is probably a name, maybe the name of the artist given when it was sold.

To find the catalogue for the auction, my next stop is one of the best sites for research: WorldCat.org. Libraries around the world upload their collection catalogues to this site so you can find almost anything—including a copy of that auction catalogue from November 21, 1927!

A keyword search told me that the Auktionshaus Glückselig in Vienna, Austria sold artwork from the collection of Viktor and Helene Mautner Markhof. With a little more searching, I found out that Viktor Mautner-Markhof was an Austrian industrialist who lived from 1865 to 1919. His grandfather Adolf Ignaz Mautner was the leaseholder of the Brewery St. Marx in 1840 and became known for the production of compressed yeast. Under his sons, the brewery became the third-largest brewery in Europe. The prosperous family became known as art patrons and philanthropists. His wife, Helene, lived from 1867 to 1926. (The name Mautner-Markhof lives on in the German food industry, although the family not longer owns the company.)

The only two copies of the auction catalogue are available in the United States are held by the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Frick Art Library in New York. Not convenient for someone in Milwaukee! But sometimes there is more than one entry in WorldCat for the same book, and I found out that the Heidelberg University Library in Germany also has a copy. I also knew, from previous searches, that Heidelberg has scanned many of their resources so that you can view them online. Maybe this one was available digitally.

So I went to the Heidelberg’s library website and found out that yes, it was! And on page 17 of that catalogue, number 58 is a listing for our painting. There is no doubt because the painting was reproduced.

Page 17 of Nachlass Viktor und Helene Mautner-Markhof: Mobiliar, Gemälde und Ziergegenstände der Neuzeit. Image courtesy of Heidelberg University Library.

As I suspected when reading the Sumowski entry, when the painting sold in 1927, it was attributed to Jacob Ochtervelt (1635-1682), a 17th century Dutch painter of the Italian school. He focused on genre paintings, but his subject was interiors, not markets. Just compare The Marriage Trap to The Love Letter at the Metropolitan Museum of Art below. You can see that the style is more refined than Victor’s, and the figures much longer and elegant. The activity is limited and the scene simply evoked.

Jacob Ochtervelt (Dutch, 1634–1682), The Love Letter, early 1670s. Oil on canvas. The Metrpolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Mendelsohn, 1980.

So, now I knew that the painting was at one time in the collection of Viktor and Helene Mautner-Markhof. The latest that it entered that collection is 1926 (when Helene died). Since the collection is under both of their names, however, it is probable that the painting was purchased before Viktor died in 1919. But I don’t know that for sure, so I just document what we can be positive about for now.

And, although we know that the painting sold in 1927, we don’t know who bought it. Sometimes you can find an annotated copy of auction catalogue in a library that lists the purchaser. Unfortunately, we have checked the other known copies, and none of them are annotated. So, for now, that’s a dead end.

Next time we’ll look into at least one stop the painting made between the Mautner-Markhofs and the Flaggs: Nazi-era Germany.