When You Can't Take a Picture

One of the phrases I've learned in Italian is, "Posso fare una foto?"  Most of the time, especially when I'm inside a church or museum, the answer is, "No foto".  Of course you still see people taking pictures, holding their iPhones discreetly at chest height, as if they are just checking their email while they happen to be standing directly in front of one of Giotto's frescoes.  Most don't get caught, and it is tempting to follow their lead and do the same.  But I've been wondering if that is really the best way to remember something beautiful, regardless of the rules.

All this reminds me of an article I read earlier this summer.  The author makes the case that when we are constantly reaching for our phones to captures memories of beauty, we fail to actually experience the beauty that is in front of us.  Instead of rushing to see everything and madly snapping pictures so that we can remember it all, we should slow down and carefully examine a few things.  Drawing is an excellent way to do this.

This was the case for me when I was in Orvieto yesterday morning.  Photography is not allowed inside the Duomo, but it is a breathtaking space, and I wanted to carry a little bit of it home with me.  I picked one tiny corner of the building and gave myself forty-five minutes to draw.  The result was an imperfect and unfinished sketch, but my memory of the space is clearer than it otherwise would have been.  

Unfinished Sketch of the Orvieto Duomo

One of the benefits of this way of looking is the degree to which it forces me to slow down.  At one point while I was working in the quiet church a bird swooped down close to my head, and the sound of its flapping wings echoed through the capacious space.  It was a sound I had never heard before and never would have heard if I had been racing about trying to take pictures of everything.

Before I left the city I made a few more sketches while sitting covertly in the corner of a cafe and drawing the people at the other tables. 

Quick Gesture of Two Women in Montenucci's Cafe

Once again, the sketch is unfinished, but the experience of being in there and seeing these women have a discussion over wine and salads was lovely.  Even ordinary moments like these can be vivid and interesting when given the sort of undivided attention that drawing requires.  

Arte Studio Ginestrelle: Day One

I’m spending the next three weeks at the Arte Studio Ginestrelle in Italy’s Parco del Monte Subasio, which is near the city of Assisi.  Today is my first whole day, and although I haven’t totally recovered from jet lag, I did make one small oil sketch. 

quick oil sketch on the first day

At one point while I was working on the sketch an unexpected gust of wind blew the lightweight plein aire easel forward, and the painting hit the side of my head, leading to a head full of blue and green pigment for me and a series of long, wild, hairlike marks on the canvas (which are painted over now, of course).

So there are downsides to working outdoors, but there are also benefits.  The immediacy of working directly from nature is irreplaceable, and while I can and do experience that back in Michigan as well, this is a very special place.

When Marina Merli, the director and creator of the Ginestrelle program, was driving me from the train station in Assisi to the residency up in the mountains late yesterday afternoon, I asked her a little bit about the park.  I already knew, of course, that it is the sacred mountain of Assisi, the mountain where St. Francis once prayed.  I knew less about the plants and animals that are here now – wild boar, porcupine, truffles and dogs who can sniff them out, myriad species of birds and insects. I certainly did not expect the coolness of the air.  Unlike the city below, which is often over ninety degrees in July, the mountains are relatively cool.  Part of Marina’s purpose in creating the residency program, in fact, was to create a place where artists could be inspired by the idyllic natural environment, and this place certainly is that.  

How Amusing, if We'll Listen

According to the ancient Greeks, the muses were nine daughters of Zeus who lived on Mount Olympus and entertained the other gods with their music and dancing.  On occasion they would breathe their divine inspiration into a human, allowing him to achieve otherworldly success in the arts.  

Even if no one believes in these women anymore, the idea of them is still terribly useful.  Having a bad day in the studio?  Blame the muses!

This topic was on my mind the other day when I came across the following painting by Ferdinand Hodler, which was recently acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Ferdinand Hodler, The Dream of the Shepherd, Oil on canvas, 1896

When I first saw the image I assumed the women at the top of the canvas were muses.  It looked (at first glance) like there were nine of them, and they seemed to be offering the shepherd boy inspiration in the form of a dream.

Then I counted the women and found only eight.  Why not nine?

The reality is that Hodler probably had multiple reasons for including these women in the painting.  Apparently he had gained some notoriety previous to making this painting for several other paintings which were deemed too erotic and blocked from display.  This painting may have been Hodler's comeback.  In other words, he may have wanted a reason to include a number of naked women in the piece, and it's only incidental that they are reminiscent of the nine muses.

Be that as it may, there are still some who interpret the women as conduits of divine inspiration, and it's almost certainly fair to consider them muse-like, even if there are a mere eight.  What's interesting to me as an artist is the relationship between the shepherd receiving the vision and the ethereal women offering it to him.  He seems to have abandoned his own objectives and allowed the vision to speak to him.  With his face (and thus his identity) masked by his hand, he has taken his self out of the equation and let the rhythm of the dancing women come over him.

Perhaps most artists today just use the idea of the muse not showing up as an elegant excuse for not working.  But even in the absence of nine singing sisters in the sky, there's still something to this idea of listening, of letting go of our egos and our desire for control and accepting that many of our best ideas come from outside of ourselves.  Whether inspired by nature, by the Holy Spirit (who Milton called upon at the beginning of Paradise Lost), or by one's own materials, part of the work of the artist is being willing to listen while we work.

Whose Idea Was It Anyway?

Last January I saw Francesco Primaticcio's Ulysses and Penelope at the Toledo Museum of Art and thought it was tremendous.  In particular, I was drawn to the tender gesture Ulysses makes toward his wife Penelope.

Francesco Primaticcio, Ulysses and Penelope, Oil on canvas, ca. 1560

Then this morning I went to the Detroit Institute of Art and was stunned to see this strikingly similar but (in my opinion) less elegant painting of the same gesture!  Granted, this is a painting of Eros and Psyche rather than Ulysses and Penelope, but nearly everything else about the figures is the same.  

Niccolo dell' Abbate, Eros and Psyche, Oil on canvas, 1500s

My first thought was that Niccolo dell' Abbate must have stolen the gesture from Francesco Primaticcio.  Neither of the dates on the paintings are very specific, so it's not clear which was painted first, but Primaticcio's painting looked to my eye like the original.

Nevertheless, I decided to do some reading before I jumped to any conclusions.

According to the Toledo Museum of Art's website, Primaticcio worked in Fontainebleau and was part of a group of artists who adapted Italian Mannerism to suit French tastes.  Primaticcio's greatest artistic achievement was the 500-foot-long Gallery of Ulysses inside the Palace of Fontainebleau, which he and his assistants (one of whom was Niccolo dell' Abbate) frescoed with fifty-eight scenes from the life of Ulysses.  Sadly, this gallery is no longer standing, since it was demolished during the 18th century.  The design of the frescoes is only known because of a series of engravings made by a Dutchman, Theodoor van Thulden, during the seventeenth century.  

Theodoor van Thulden, copy after Primaticcio, The Works of Ulysses: Lying in Bed, Ulysses Tells of His Adventures

The similarity between the engraving and the two paintings is undeniable.  Yes, the paintings are both mirror images of the engraving, and, yes, the engraving contains more figures than either painting.  (It should be noted that the process of making a print involves flipping the engraved metal plate over, so it is unsurprising that an image made in this way might appear in reverse.) But the two main figures are nearly identical in all three.  So, neither Primaticcio's painting in Toledo nor Niccolo's painting in Detroit is an original.  Both paintings are based off of the once magnificent fresco cycle in Fontainebleau, which both men played a role in creating.

I said the two main figures are nearly identical in all three, but there is one difference.  In Primaticcio's oil painting, Ulysses is actually touching Penelope's face, not merely gesturing toward it, as he is in the engraving and in Niccolo's painting of Eros and Psyche. 

Why would Primaticcio have Ulysses touch Penelope in the oil painting but not in the original fresco?  Did he change his mind?  To what extent was the original gesture in the fresco at Fontainebleau even his idea?  We know that the design of the frescoes was primarily his and that he was given credit for them, but he also trusted some of his assistants to interpret his sketches as they worked.  Is it possible that Niccolo dell' Abbate, one of his assistants, looked at a rough sketch made by Primaticcio and interpreted it to mean that Ulysses should be gesturing toward Penelope's face?  If so, then which artist should be credited with coming up with the original?  Is it even possible to suss out each man's precise role in the process?

Regardless of the answers to these questions, the story of these two artists illustrates an interesting truth about the role of originality in the arts.  It is tempting, especially for contemporary artists, to seek out originality above all other concerns.  It can be said of many twentieth and twenty-first century artists, "Well, he was the first one to..." as if that were explanation enough for the artist's genius.  And yet, as valuable as originality is, it is still only one of the many desirable qualities in a piece of art.  Both Primaticcio's painting in Toledo and Niccolo's painting in Detroit contain moments of brilliance, just as the Fontainebleau paintings must have done as well.  As viewers we can benefit from myriad interpretations of the same scene, and it is hardly a disappointment to see both men's work.