tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50165107893062086932024-03-06T07:39:30.938+01:00On Familiar ThingsHermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-78879010708117565612012-04-12T19:38:00.000+02:002012-04-12T19:38:44.950+02:00Hendrick van der Burch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hendrick van der Burch. Dutch Interior, c. 1660.</div>
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Of late I have thought on this painting a truly great deal. As most of you know, much of my recent scholarship has concerned spirituality in Dutch interiors of the 17th Century (one of the finest Centuries in any place). And yet, despite a career in this field that has spanned several decades, largely on this very subject, I had never seen M. van der Burch's pictures! It is pure serendipity that I, after a stroll in the Zoological Gardens of Berlin just this past week, stopped into Gemäldegalerie to see some old friends. (By this I mean their fine Vemeers!)<br />
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There, not far from those very Vermeer paintings, I saw this painting hung near the gallery exit — ostensibly to demonstrate the stylistic cues van der Burch clearly borrowed from Vermeer. Much as Vermeer did, van der Burch emphasizes the presence of absence here. Where is the master of this opulent house? His hookah sits smoldering next to his fine ermine coat and limited-edition Rasta Vans. A Dali poster (surely not an original, as the original at this time was owned by Rembrandt, Dali's greatest admirer) hangs above. Yet the picture's focus remains the master's absence. He is gone, like an exhalation from the hookah. Some have interpreted all this rather drearily: The "limited edition" Vans relate to the limit of human life; the time drips away in the Dali poster; the hookah is probably cold. The most nihilistic go on suggest that the painting is a comment on religious doubt.<br />
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But as all who know me and my work could predict, I see that reading as quite hollow. I see this painting as suggesting a spiritual longing for return: more likely the master has stepped out for a moment, to the privy or, more likely, to welcome an old friend inside from the cold! And soon, mugs of Swiss Miss in hand, they will return to the sitting room, relight the hookah, and remark not on a facile study of Dali's painting, but instead on the warm muffins they shared with Dali himself just a few mornings ago.Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-85342587187619205122012-03-29T04:55:00.002+02:002012-03-29T05:08:12.192+02:00A Chat with Profs. Peeters & WundrumHello, all! <br /><br />We'd like to share with you an <a href="http://www.thereisnothere.org/2012/03/jan-peeters-and-hermann-wundrum-on-familiar-things/">interview</a> that we recently completed with Hunter Braithwaite, a former student of ours from our time at William and Mary. The piece is up at There Is No There, his website focusing on contemporary art in Miami, Florida. <br /><br />A big thanks to Hunter from Jan and I. Hunter, thanks again for taking the time to talk with us. I am still enjoying the Trader Joe's Cookie Butter you gifted me!Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00878717084061217717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-51322375047771736082012-03-28T14:29:00.005+02:002012-03-28T15:13:30.038+02:00Gerrit Van Honthorst<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTV1flcAiflEMDR81O5cZs-2_lLcPDL7Zdp2Xkm-Pg7tDXzK4nvj1fhTrOJaXNNE4_EaLQ0f2sjk41LQHKhe_EqAwwgPIAGt2bU5VNLuGHHXkbvH6Ce2Ve924KeU-5ilrEGHIW0aq2gmkQ/s1600/honthorst.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTV1flcAiflEMDR81O5cZs-2_lLcPDL7Zdp2Xkm-Pg7tDXzK4nvj1fhTrOJaXNNE4_EaLQ0f2sjk41LQHKhe_EqAwwgPIAGt2bU5VNLuGHHXkbvH6Ce2Ve924KeU-5ilrEGHIW0aq2gmkQ/s400/honthorst.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724924527502676978" /></a><br /><br />Gerrit Van Honthorst. Margareta Maria de Roodere, 1652. <br /><br />In our last post I shared a delightful painting by Joachim von Sandrart, showing a butcher and his meat, cut for sandwiches, masterfully thin. And in that post I made mention of von Sandart's apprenticeship to the painter Gerrit van Honthorst. It is my great pleasure to share with you one of that master's best works. Seated here with her mother is another student of von Sandrart, the young Margareta Maria de Roodere. <br /><br />The painting by van Honthorst is quite a testament to the skill Margareta Here Hendrix has been rendered quite faithfully, his face instantly recognizable. Yet the picture is embellished with smoke, and the young musician is given the pale and ghostly skin of the departed. Van Honthorst demonstrates Margareta's talents best in the glittering eye of the young poet, staring off through the haze and full of wonder. <br /><br />We find a similar gaze in another painting made in about the same time: Jan Davidszoon de Heem's portrait of a Student in His Study. The portrait is a favorite of both Professor Peeters and myself, and captures the gaze of yet another glassy-eyed dreamer. <br /><br />Van Honthorst pictured his student just as she was, talented, yet not quite matured as a woman. She is shown with the affects of youth, a jar of hazelnut spread and her glass pipe. The elder painter's depiction is masterful. Van Honthorst uses his palette to recreate another held by his student. Notice, too, a handful of brushes and her maul, the delicate swirls of glass in her pipe. <br /><br />A bit of Margareta's personal history has come to use through the ages. In addition to painting beautifully under the tutelage of van Honthorst she also practiced calligraphy, drew, etched glass with diamonds, stitched her own hacky sacks and embroidered cloth. It seems the young Margareta took to each craft with great skill, answering the ages-old question, "Are You Experienced?"Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00878717084061217717noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-69390630953068671362012-03-09T06:03:00.005+01:002012-03-09T06:35:26.776+01:00Joachim Sandrart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJdWyyIxImkR653MP2Jr5zm3sS339XedrjBODczJnmI_MCEflytwGNFTTw_U5pj8YFrwPZmmHUaH8CVRsqbXSXJwt2PbHNzzdA8yVeD2WJY3tGNw5-j93BkM-jwVlXMZNc6X1ZFUW1bXk/s1600/sandrart.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 332px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJdWyyIxImkR653MP2Jr5zm3sS339XedrjBODczJnmI_MCEflytwGNFTTw_U5pj8YFrwPZmmHUaH8CVRsqbXSXJwt2PbHNzzdA8yVeD2WJY3tGNw5-j93BkM-jwVlXMZNc6X1ZFUW1bXk/s400/sandrart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717765528271381122" /></a><br />Joachim von Sandrart. February, 1642<br /><br />Often in our academic lives (Jan will agree!) we must take time away from important tasks to consider the work of our colleagues. To assist with the lecture notes, manuscripts and restoration projects that fill an art historian's days. And this morning, I'd like to share a bit of a certain colleague's work with our readers. <br /><br />We have much in common, my friend and I, as art historians. His path toward a career in the arts was a winding one, studying first drawing, then engraving and finally painting and art history. It was only after earning an undergraduate degree in marine biology and then starting my practice restoring furniture that I came to study painting. My colleague, like me, worked for a time and studied painting in Utrecht. And as a historian he had a great interest in writing. The culmination of his greatest research was a widely acclaimed collection of writing on art history, education and the lives of artists. Many readers of the blog would by now know that I am referring to Joachim Sandrart. <br /><br />It was in Utrecht that he studied with Gerrit van Honthorst, the great painter of candlelight, table games and revelry. From Honthorst we can be sure that Sandrart learned to appreciate the pleasures of the table. In the lovingly rendered cold cuts tray, we find its alternating mounds of ham, turkey and roast beef. And in the doughy face of the butcher, hoisting the tray in pride, we see his sweaty brow perfectly rendered. Sandrart's piece is both tender and cruel in its depiction of flesh. There is haste in our butcher's pose, as he prepares to carry the cold cuts to the party pictured over his left shoulder. There is a banquet table lined with lively guests, enjoying their evening, good company, bottles of fine meads, crispy bacon, cubes of Swiss and cheddar cheeses and wreaths brotherly smoke. We, too, might enjoy the painting, like the company of a wise and gracious colleague.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00878717084061217717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-13107715077329832142012-03-08T16:49:00.009+01:002012-03-11T20:24:38.265+01:00Pieter de Hooch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDATgpB-9XO7DBbH3-6gp0_yWldC24Zu7irO7aBSh4gG50Gmp7wAyY6rqYcMEVf7kA6xdEqUEsiKlh6_QNEYa7vCKnhtLe8ygGEc-a_BIgxrba8yTxZwDgjDjfgn_zviLMnQdGy3-k9SnI/s1600/23hooch1.jpg" style="font-style: normal; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDATgpB-9XO7DBbH3-6gp0_yWldC24Zu7irO7aBSh4gG50Gmp7wAyY6rqYcMEVf7kA6xdEqUEsiKlh6_QNEYa7vCKnhtLe8ygGEc-a_BIgxrba8yTxZwDgjDjfgn_zviLMnQdGy3-k9SnI/s320/23hooch1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717387331292608146" style="cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Pieter de Hooch, Portrait of a Family in a Courtyard in Delft (Detail), 1658-60.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Friends, I have positively itched to tell you of this painting over the last week! Have you, readers, ever experienced this irrepressible social urge — perhaps late in the evening, somewhat dazed, when your mind leaps to some unforeseen connection between something long beneath your nose and some other circumstance? (No doubt <a href="http://onfamiliarthings.blogspot.com/2012/02/pieter-jansz-van-asch.html">Pieter Jansz van Asch</a> did!)</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Well, even if you have not, certainly you will understand the frisson I felt upon spotting this painting — once so well known to me, but later forgotten — in a used copy of Peter Sutton's now-classic book on de Hooch. Let me go back. I spent last Friday afternoon in Leiden, where I was present for a young colleague's thesis defense at the University. After toasting his success and sneaking a handful of <i>stroopwaffels</i>, I strolled through the streets of my youth. Stopping at a used bookstore not far from the Harvey House, I pulled down Sutton's monograph, hoping it would serve as a gift for my young friend, the newly minted academic.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div>A half-eaten stroopwaffel dropped from my hand when I opened the book at random: here was de Hooch's <i style="font-style: normal; ">Portrait of a Family in a Courtyard in Delft</i>, exactly as I had seen it so many times before, but here, nostalgic as I felt, I looked down at this portion of it and saw myself at a family gathering, just like this one, so many times before. Where de Hooch painted the family's teenage son at slight remove from other figures, standing almost sullenly in his Baja poncho (so popular among young students of the age), I saw myself in a garden in Leiden, 1970, in a poncho of my own, thinking of art. De Hooch's dog, so much like my own dear Knop, has stolen someone's hacky sack. The women to the left, de Hooch's aunt, holds a fine Delft bong and lifts the hem of her skirt to show a fine silk under-skirt, emblematic of the upper-middle-class of the time, much as my own aunt, in a Polaroid I have of us standing <i>so like this</i>, with dear Knop at our feet, would have flaunted her Silhouette sunglasses. We stood exactly in this way, so many years distant from de Hooch's family! I was astonished.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being sure to wipe the stroopwaffel crumbs from the book before I purchased it hurriedly, I felt electric. That night, in my guest room, I played through both sides of <i>Live Grape</i> while writing what turned out to be a very long note to my friend, recounting this same story, on the title pages of Sutton's book. I wonder how many, through the long years, have looked at de Hooch's painting and felt the past rise up like a haze, enveloping them!</div>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-23097902659908171782012-02-28T15:01:00.015+01:002012-03-06T19:57:49.162+01:00Jan Steen<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFhXSRkY0zfZxUATv3t2aZ_fAf-4PjFNkJ__oAoaoxF3YGuoZjS77JzRCETwYx-EYK-1ZrBLnNKmjp8Q5d-IRl3NtzIkRq2YQTC0EzmmECVhTQHpnH2s5SCov9kBy6JnDB43l47Zi-Xrk/s1600/JanSteenStNicholas.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFhXSRkY0zfZxUATv3t2aZ_fAf-4PjFNkJ__oAoaoxF3YGuoZjS77JzRCETwYx-EYK-1ZrBLnNKmjp8Q5d-IRl3NtzIkRq2YQTC0EzmmECVhTQHpnH2s5SCov9kBy6JnDB43l47Zi-Xrk/s400/JanSteenStNicholas.jpg" border="0" alt="Mama, waar is Sinterklaas?" /></a><br /><br /><div>Jan Steen. The Feast of St. Nicholas, 1656.<br /><br /><div>Friends, friends! How we have been away, Jan and I, busying ourselves with obligations of writing and teaching. In the past few years (has it been so long, Jan?) we have had nary an afternoon to sit, write and share the certain perfumes of our favorite paintings. But with contracts now fulfilled and manuscripts submitted we can delight in our most-loved paintings yet again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though we've been negligent (perhaps unforgivably) I'm pleased to announce the fruits of my double sabbatical! A new book, soon published by Oxford University: The Golden Table: Food and culture of the Dutch merchant class. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvj52y30vKIRW7_OVxEEvCL9T6P9YKD5oiZdpC85zOVnmv9pkhxNViHTFDsoPbMqIU4WDFokkrji4oqMx7usOgeC-fFqO4YPpIH09_LeFjBg-MnE4hEM68xKyv9uvYkZQ1T_RiznocaN6/s1600/goldentalbe2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvj52y30vKIRW7_OVxEEvCL9T6P9YKD5oiZdpC85zOVnmv9pkhxNViHTFDsoPbMqIU4WDFokkrji4oqMx7usOgeC-fFqO4YPpIH09_LeFjBg-MnE4hEM68xKyv9uvYkZQ1T_RiznocaN6/s400/goldentalbe2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="OX U" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>The book will be available this fall in your local university bookstore. It's available for pre-order now on Amazon for those of you eager for a copy. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is indeed a warm feeling returning to our blog. I'm reminded of an extended absence from my home in 1990 and 92. The Metropolitan Museum of Art had offered me an Andrew W. Mellon Postdoctoral Curatorial Fellowship, too delicious to refuse. I spent a dizzying two years living in a cramped two-bedroom in Carol Gardens with a calligrapher friend of mine, working all of the time at the Museum. With my work spread so thick and the money so thin, I didn't journey home to the Netherlands until my fellowship had finished. When I finally returned to my flat, exhausted from a sixteen-hour trip, with two lay-overs, I was rejuvenated and ecstatic to find myself at home. </div><div><br /></div><div>There I found my case of books and a favorite engraving, wonderful still in its hazy frame. A shelf of pipes exactly as I'd left them; a stash jar, still fragrant when the lid was lifted. And there was my spare copy of Europe '72 still on the turntable. And here, in the pages of On Familiar Things, I've found the dusty bits and faithful company of my great friends Jan Peeters, Frans Hals, Dirck van Baburen, Pieter Claesz and Jan Steen. </div><div><br /></div><div>We find a similar and vibrant camaraderie in this late painting from Jan Steen. Here we see a family reveling after a visit from Sinterklaas. The golden child, shown here in her golden frock, has been showered with gifts from dear Saint Nicholas: baskets of bread, pretzel rolls, chewy bagels (by the bag!) and tubs of whipped Philadelphia cream cheese spreads. Standing and sobbing behind his younger sister is the misbehaving brother, slighted by Sinterklaas for his woeful mischief. Here he is openly mocked by his family, who tease him with a sort of keep-away game. A cousin hoists a tub of Philly just out of reach. Even his grandmother, partly hidden by a beaded curtain, is in on the jest as she enjoys a dollop of rich whipped cream cheese. The rest of the family is reeling, with the exception of its patriarch. He appears in the center of the paintings, seemingly lost in thought, mellowed as he recalls a distant visit from Sinterklaas on a morning long ago. </div></div>Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00878717084061217717noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-59619839254169782412012-02-18T01:20:00.010+01:002012-02-19T08:51:46.360+01:00Pieter Jansz van Asch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdpYPz2IWMfTWpxMCvu55u62jvDsurMjTFwws_3P3yV2rBFThDjo7etecmTYkbW7GYNKI_eGZQnESIn9dP4UZYD4bjyLoH-_yIS2WxZCjegMq12f5AcjJ1RCpZ3U_ZRh61-pZDHjJgg7rf/s1600/dude-sitting-in-a-chair-pointing-at-pictur.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdpYPz2IWMfTWpxMCvu55u62jvDsurMjTFwws_3P3yV2rBFThDjo7etecmTYkbW7GYNKI_eGZQnESIn9dP4UZYD4bjyLoH-_yIS2WxZCjegMq12f5AcjJ1RCpZ3U_ZRh61-pZDHjJgg7rf/s320/dude-sitting-in-a-chair-pointing-at-pictur.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710751299966497906" /></a><br /><br /><div style="font-style: normal; ">Pieter Jansz van Asch. Self Portrait with Dio LP, c. 1648.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div>It is no secret, readers, that I am almost overfond (if I can admit such) of the liminal figures of the Dutch Golden Age, those painters whose stars, had they risen just a few years earlier, would have glowed that much brighter. Instead they live on now with little recognition, though I like to think that Professor Wundrum and I are, via our humble blog, able to show you modern scholars how similar these hard-working artists, with their garrets and microwavable treats, are not so unlike us, in our adjunct faculty cubicles.</div><div><br /></div><div>In this picture, van Asch is mid-conversation with us. We almost feel the intensity of his late-night-snack-fueled fervor. He sits red-eyed in his dressing gown, revealing to us as co-conspirators the secret-within-a-secret of his copy of Dio's <i>Evil or Divine </i>LP: Dio's logo, when inverted, reads "Devil." (I, rarely a symbolist in my interpretations of paintings, leave the exegesis of this to you, readers.) It was common among artists of all stripes during this era, Dio and van Asch included, to hide such "Easter Eggs" in their works, perhaps to let observant viewers in on a secret. What a delight!</div><div><br /></div><div>Astute art historians and frequent visitors to the Rijksmuseum, where this painting sometimes is on view, may note that I was more precise with the date of this picture than other scholars have been. Further explanation of my choice here is forthcoming via SSRN, in "Beaded Curtains in Dutch Households 1640–1678." I pin this picture's date to the late 1640s, when men of van Asch's social class frequently hung in their libraries and studies beaded curtains like the one featured here. I am frankly surprised that other students of 17th Century Dutch domestic culture have missed this, but where one finds fertile ground in the overcrowded world of academic art history, one must till it.</div>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-35960075460995335492012-02-10T23:15:00.011+01:002012-02-11T19:34:39.387+01:00Aert de Gelder<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8GNCff8ZLdFe2UVqYHElV4nK98HM4kCOraOSm2hjYtAfyUYUrHys7RUv7728X8gL_ikiXDajO45WBegMU0oepSQfVC3wVEEINHGsv2nkBueGUM6AlsNR2IIW4gIWfLDAcoL77gl9J8Nl/s1600/aert-de-gelder-self-portrait.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8GNCff8ZLdFe2UVqYHElV4nK98HM4kCOraOSm2hjYtAfyUYUrHys7RUv7728X8gL_ikiXDajO45WBegMU0oepSQfVC3wVEEINHGsv2nkBueGUM6AlsNR2IIW4gIWfLDAcoL77gl9J8Nl/s320/aert-de-gelder-self-portrait.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707639320859943202" /></a><br /><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Aert de Gelder, Self Portrait with Escher, c. 1686.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Welcome back, friends! I have much to tell you — most of it having to do with my newly acquired model railroading hobby — but let me first share with you a gem of the Dutch Golden Age, unknown to me until a recent jaunt through the Hermitage.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div>You already know — I'm sure of it — of Aert de Gelder's long and proud history as standard-bearer for the style of his teacher Rembrandt, and of his earlier tutelage at the easel of one of my dearest favorites, <a href="http://onfamiliarthings.blogspot.com/2009/04/samuel-dirksz-van-hoogstraten.html" style="font-style: normal; ">Samuel van Hoogstraten</a>. Art historians often read him as an also-ran, a sad bearer of Rembrandt's palanquin as the Old Master bid us all goodbye, in his wake coming the genre painters of the 18th Century.</div><div><br /></div><div>I submit this painting as a refutation of that narrative, which I have always suspected of being a disingenuous gloss. Look at how de Gelder portrays himself: he confronts critics of his style even as he recognizes his place among his fast-moving contemporaries, one of whose works — M.C. Escher's <i>Convex and Concave</i> — he holds as he glances over his shoulder, red-eyed, befuddled, almost guilty to be observing his competition but still, admittedly, somewhat humbled by the leaps of perspective that Escher, psychedelic explorer of academic headspace, has undertaken. His marijuana cigarette smokes idly by a silent beeper. As a lover of art history one cannot help being somewhat wrenched by the self-investigation de Gelder has undertaken here. He aches to find his place in history even as it gallops onward. I end with a quotation from his diary, written (by my own research) roughly a year before this painting's completion: "Saw Escher drawings in house of M. Troost — my God."</div>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-35581277332880738942009-09-05T07:55:00.006+02:002012-02-18T02:19:30.769+01:00Cornelis Bega<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKw1jdm-pMftOI7bphmkTrvaSKfLqj-HYabbFCP5bStiry1xA0hPfN_YBiH2La5CJ0sGgMbtoKozdXmaiRv-Pfao2VUY98OGZwVXyJ0q-Qoonmg1K-4AjGQpIiZchkHDgj1TqtCr9xKBL/s1600/guitar-hero.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKw1jdm-pMftOI7bphmkTrvaSKfLqj-HYabbFCP5bStiry1xA0hPfN_YBiH2La5CJ0sGgMbtoKozdXmaiRv-Pfao2VUY98OGZwVXyJ0q-Qoonmg1K-4AjGQpIiZchkHDgj1TqtCr9xKBL/s320/guitar-hero.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710279133725864690" /></a><br /><br />Cornelis Bega. Woman Playing Guitar Hero, 1664-65.<br /><br />Colleagues! I have much for which to atone: let me preface first, for my own sake (and so you forget what is to come) that I have moved from dreary Ithaca, New York, to the lush and verdant shores of Northern California, to work as an independent scholar and researcher near Berkeley, California. I can say nothing of the experience that the Bard has not already written, and note the "darling bud of May" – which indeed is not roughly shook here, but persists throughout the year!<br /><br />The unfortunate aspect of the above is that I was, while an adjunct professor at Cornell, unable to complete the necessary research for <i>The Sacred Kitchen.</i> I would like to say that the reasons for this had to do with my own scholarly inability (and in a sense, they did), but the truth is this: at some point, several months ago, I can't remember when, my fellow professor (and condo-mate) Marcus Grum bought, for his research into Gaming as a Cultural Text, the video game Guitar Hero. At first I imagined my participation in Professor Grum's research to be merely an act of assistance to my friend and colleague. But as I began to return to my apartment for "lunch breaks" only to find myself, several hours later, desperately trying to conquer Eric Johnson's "Cliffs of Dover" (on medium, no less!), I realized that I had surpassed even my own capacity for cognitive dissonance and rationalization. So – the move! Here I am, now, ensconced in the green California hills, with nary a television set or Wii in sight, returning diligently to my work.<br /><br />And the painting – ah, the painting! Indeed, Cornelis Bega is a favorite of mine, as any friends know. Something in the way he treats his subjects – caricatures, really – should do well to remind us all, professors or laypeople, that even on our worst behavior (cf. Bega's "Tavern Scene" of 1664), we maintain the indelible mark of pure humanity. And that, my friends, warrants thought. Even in her squalor, amidst the Costco snack packs and novelty wizard bongs, our young musician, in form and moral intention, resembles the finest Renaissance angel. I take this, indeed, as part of Bega's philosophy, at which I just hinted: whether in the gutter or on the dais, we as humans share, every day, in the blissful spark of creation.Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-26209365082332428772009-07-24T02:25:00.000+02:002012-03-09T02:26:13.735+01:00Jan de Bray et al<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVQMGuuhdfOHUwJUsrYEc3RE9NhLKrwARxr9arpAsUXOWQTaU0VqKS7-aXPaG8GFHwVex-gmFBwXSsFwk4TwrfgbcAzP6gxzodDTt8KpncuOyCr_e8pnZ1SGncMvvNEKT2F4WAVjdavk/" target="new"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVQMGuuhdfOHUwJUsrYEc3RE9NhLKrwARxr9arpAsUXOWQTaU0VqKS7-aXPaG8GFHwVex-gmFBwXSsFwk4TwrfgbcAzP6gxzodDTt8KpncuOyCr_e8pnZ1SGncMvvNEKT2F4WAVjdavk/" width="400" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jan de Bray. The Governors of the Guild of St. Luke, Haarlem, 1675. <br /><br />This painting, while credited to Jan de Bray, is in actuality the work of four separate men. Jan de Bray is pictured here, second from the left. His drawing board is perched against the back of a companion, Jan de Jong. De Jong painted his own likeness, and is pictured here in a relaxed and contemplative pose. In the back left we see painter Jan van Hotingh seated in the shadows. Van Hotingh painted himself into the work, as well. And the seated man resting his head against his hand is none other than Jan de Bray's brother Dirck de Bray. For this painting the brothers de Bray painted one another. Jan is shown making a preliminary sketch of Dirck in a reference to the painting before its completion! A remarkable work, a great synthesis of talent and camaraderie. <br /><br />The collaborative nature of the painting is most plainly evidenced by the sketch shown on the table. <br /><br />We are unbelievably lucky that this sketch is extant! Good fortune has allowed the painting to survive. The mind can freeze when considering the survival of any fragile material through hundreds of years. Many of our favorite paintings benefit from their sheer size. It is unlikely that a stretched and painted canvas measuring many square feet could go missing but it is a true wonder that such a small scrap of paper could survive intact! Legend goes that in the early 19th century an art scholar by the name of Bartholomew Ionides discovered the sketch at a flea market in Antwerp. It is now in the collections at the Rijksmuseum. Here is the full scrap. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQMvLvuxiPJZBDmLeQUxJc3KFtDBxe102c2K_FoCQIDXDhYSRLpUhy8XpCDFQfvcYXFShE7ghGMcQ9JdCZ8COjOTPdnpD3LzEsgFWxwnuBp2gy7w37m8kywNdQ_cQ-6mf66d33yLPrcs/s800/beatles.jpg" target="new"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQMvLvuxiPJZBDmLeQUxJc3KFtDBxe102c2K_FoCQIDXDhYSRLpUhy8XpCDFQfvcYXFShE7ghGMcQ9JdCZ8COjOTPdnpD3LzEsgFWxwnuBp2gy7w37m8kywNdQ_cQ-6mf66d33yLPrcs/s800/beatles.jpg" width="400" border="0" /> </a><br /><br />It is a revelatory sketch. The members of the Beatles achieved their greatest genius as group. While the four men were abundantly talented, each in his own right, their work was its best when made together. The painting of the governors alludes to the Fab Four and their famous collaborations. A majority of the Beatles' best-known songs were penned by Lennon and McCartney. Though the credits go to the men in front, the work would have been impossibly incomplete without the contributions of Harrison and Starkey. Surely, the same is true here. Without the added touches of de Jong, van Hotingh and brother Dirck de Bray Jan de Bray's painting would remain incomplete. May we delight with them in their friendship and admire their collective spirit!Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00878717084061217717noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-9958181292585252042009-04-10T21:06:00.004+02:002009-04-10T21:27:18.461+02:00Samuel Dirksz van Hoogstraten II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGSnegZHAL3cpGCB-5f5sJMzt_wx1jv68IAjVAVADi7ex2S0vi5zKUYMPY7rUVOKW96nbMq-d7HDypFB8ok4YAEQrXmI9ZLn1tqftZCBQZCpj-8Dsl3-uyjReXsymetlovynSGJCJaaBX/s1600-h/drawings.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGSnegZHAL3cpGCB-5f5sJMzt_wx1jv68IAjVAVADi7ex2S0vi5zKUYMPY7rUVOKW96nbMq-d7HDypFB8ok4YAEQrXmI9ZLn1tqftZCBQZCpj-8Dsl3-uyjReXsymetlovynSGJCJaaBX/s320/drawings.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323146326530010866" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>Samuel Dirksz van Hoogstraten. Self Portrait, ca. 1647.<div><br /></div><div>This self-portrait of such alarming alacrity should give any astute viewer a glimpse into the very soul of a young Samuel Dirksz van Hoogstraten (this painting was done at a mere 16 years of age!), prior to his meteoric rise as painting virtuoso, constructor of 3D "peepshow" boxes, poet, and author of the watershed <i>Inleyding tot de Hooge Schoole der Schilderkonst</i>, Rotterdam, 1678. </div><div><br /></div><div>Look at his self-assuredness, look at the deftness with which he reveals the depths of 16-year-old van Hoogstraten's heavy-lidded eyes – and look at the meta-art of his sketches of Kurt Cobain, exact copies of those found in his meticulous journals! My heart floods with pleasure at this picture; indeed, in the company of fellow scholars at the <a href="http://flyingfox.jonathanjanson.com/2009/01/02/samuel-van-hoogstraten-symposium/">Samuel van Hoogstraten symposium</a>, I passed so many sweet hours at dinner discussing this very painting with some of the gentlest, most astute scholars I have met of late. (Paul Taylor, I will see you again – I'm practicing my checkers game now!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, there is much to say about van Hoogstraten. And I will say much more – in my research I have pored more over his art as of late than nearly any other painter! But let me give you this excerpt from the aforementioned <i>Inleyding tot de Hooge Schoole der Schilderkonst </i>(I have been poring through so many primary sources in preparation for an upcoming publication, "Readymade Breakfasts in 16th Century Holland," in <i>The Chicago Art Journal</i>):</div><div><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote><i>Let me give the reader a pause here, to I discuss a bit of my own childhood – in the hopes of raising the spirits of those young artists who read this book under their blankets at night, as I did, resisting the desires of parents who wish them to go into such professions as law and moneychanging; those young artists who must draw in their closets, as I did, at night, under secrecy. </i></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">So many hours I spent sitting in my own clothes closet, having stuffed the clothing under my bed and filled that tiny corner with records, easels, mortars and pestles, and my favorite Forever 27 poster (RIP, all). Indeed, drawing endless pictures of Kurt Cobain, taking deep puffs from a contraband bong (often my only confidant in these late hours), eating tonnes of Goldfish snacks – this was my ritual, my communion, my glimmer of hope in an awful, awful childhood. Keep your heads up, and keep hold of your brushes, fellows of Her Mistress Art!</span></blockquote></div>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-32723657132205363432009-03-25T14:52:00.011+01:002009-03-26T02:50:19.537+01:00Dirck van Baburen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtikhWRP8uf4Cry-IECMOcANpe-YMbWg_kLJORuctt119s6hkpog6NwyJhlizXYr-Q2n4Kr7B2B159k7pVZGytgUAUgXGSkkj__49BjSH7RDTJ5QBUq4vb1FxeruGwziQ-09QN3AgbrL1p/s1600-h/jewsharp.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtikhWRP8uf4Cry-IECMOcANpe-YMbWg_kLJORuctt119s6hkpog6NwyJhlizXYr-Q2n4Kr7B2B159k7pVZGytgUAUgXGSkkj__49BjSH7RDTJ5QBUq4vb1FxeruGwziQ-09QN3AgbrL1p/s320/jewsharp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317208583925764626" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Dirck van Baburen. Man with Spoon Pipe and Game Boy, 1621.<br /><br />Let us meditate a moment, if you have the time (I do!), on the obvious artistic wellhead of this painting: Caravaggio! Think, briefly, on the irregular composition, the lighting – but where is Caravaggio's eminent seriousness? That is the Dutch spirit, friends! Van Baburen, during his time in Rome (where he was nicknamed "Biervlieg," or "Beerfly" for his proclivities), was a member of the Bentvueghels, a Bacchic society devoted to the humanistic process of painting, as opposed to the rote, detail-oriented processes of classical Italian art education.<br /><br />And yet van Baburen has chosen both, it seems – the skilled eye and hand of a Caravaggio devotee, and the gleeful abandon of the Dutch. His composition here is close and rough, lacking Caravaggio's secretive seriousness, presenting an intimate view (as if leaning over a table) of a youth, dressed festively for a toga party and wearing an elaborate hat of ostrich feathers, as was the fashion of the time. The youth fixes us with wide, reddened eyes as he grips a vernacular Dutch spoon bowl, his Game Boy (of an older vintage, one far predating the Game Boy Advance, which would not have been familiar to van Baburen – and regardless would have been too expensive for a rough-edged artist like him) sneaking out of the frame, laid atop sheets of Dutch <span style="font-style: italic;">feestmuziek.</span><br /><br />Indeed, this painting, imperfect though it is (it seems casual, unserious, perhaps a preparative painting for a larger, more majestic, piece), is a wonderful look at what makes Low Country art so significant: it elevates small things, mundane things, familiar things, to heights equal to Caravaggio's – light plays in delicate patterns, heavy atmospheres abound, and yet these are our daily tasks, our hobbies, our small loves.<br /><br />Let me close with a quotation from one of van Baburen's journals, which perfectly and succintly elaborates this point, and which I am of the finest fortune to possess – as I am of even finer fortune to be a distant relative of his, blessedly and blithly through the lineage of my Aunt Bettina!<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Indeed, as we finished the night – I having lived up to the name Biervlieg – and rambled home through the tangled, manic streets of Trastevere, I looked on my fellows and saw that in the wan light of moon, their faces – Il Bamboccio, Het Fret, Calzetta bianca – all ruddy and worn, red-eyed from hotboxing, were semipiternal, elevated of a grace beyond us, capable with our brushes of fixing moments like these in time, on canvas, forever.<br /></span></blockquote>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-2983549672829366802009-03-14T21:49:00.004+01:002009-03-14T21:57:06.788+01:00Jan Jansz Treck<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JWgf4sZphqgv8Tq1HEUogz_GHwYOFKiqc3r25DllCvS3u9QVzfGLWH951mnnjG88xqxxX3PqOgolxU5eBiXcHsVey69dr020bgijUCx4Ozte4bf-KCS9yuFmtfSHYkp4JZXDp_pRXVc/s1600-h/janjansztreck1648vanitas.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JWgf4sZphqgv8Tq1HEUogz_GHwYOFKiqc3r25DllCvS3u9QVzfGLWH951mnnjG88xqxxX3PqOgolxU5eBiXcHsVey69dr020bgijUCx4Ozte4bf-KCS9yuFmtfSHYkp4JZXDp_pRXVc/s320/janjansztreck1648vanitas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313149287505471490" /></a><br /><br />Jan Jansz Treck. Still life vanitas, 1648.<br /><br />A bout of foul weather can unnerve even the most subdued urbanite. This week in Amsterdam the temperatures have been moderate but damp. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7AmaKxbRsIp6QUMu5Rrrh2dyC_95e3HUTkEiQbUZ6BohszyTGKarhAZs7xE2bPVzJM2FfmSWY-wgBm344dyihZQJmmmD7kqrh_BbOugxM2OfmEZAlxOYd_kMEMRWEBfG4J2cdOw066M/s1600-h/mdnoordwest.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7AmaKxbRsIp6QUMu5Rrrh2dyC_95e3HUTkEiQbUZ6BohszyTGKarhAZs7xE2bPVzJM2FfmSWY-wgBm344dyihZQJmmmD7kqrh_BbOugxM2OfmEZAlxOYd_kMEMRWEBfG4J2cdOw066M/s320/mdnoordwest.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313149094674938738" /></a><br /><br />But there is sunshine ahead. The slick pavement and puddles bested me following an abnormally long week of reupholstering and then correcting footnotes for a draft of an essay I'm finishing. Yesterday morning I was rushing to a meeting with my son and an admissions officer from an American school he's applying to. Over my shoulder was a large bundle with a suit and freshly-pressed shirt inside that I had cleaned for the meeting. I was crossing the street towards my office when a German couple stopped me. They were looking to get to the Van Gogh Museum. Already late and irritated I considered ignoring them. "Can't you order a Starry Night mousepad from the internet?" I thought. I was instead polite and patient and helped them with directions. We parted. As I was stepping onto the curb a large van rolled by, kicking up a wave of rainwater, dirt and fine gravel. All of the closed were soaked. What I was wearing <em> and </em> carrying were in an awful state. With no time to lose I kept my stride. I called the gentleman from the university to warn him of my appearance. He was fortunately a reasonable man and expressed his condolence with an reassuring laugh. <br /><br />How I ramble!<br /><br />On the walk I was attempting to force myself into a better mood. I am often able to calm myself by meditating on a favorite painting (usually one of Claesz's breakfast pieces). In my frustration I found Jan Jansz Treck's vanitas lodged in my mind. <br /><br />This painting is particularly wretched. It is stuffed with signifiers of death. Of course there is a skull. This one is wrapped with brittle thorns that have been clipped from their vine. The standard meta reference to the arts is here in the form of a flute. The hour glass has toppled. A play by Rodenburgh entitled "Evil is its Own Reward" lays open, propped against a box of pre-cooked bacon. The tax form has me gripping my temples, recalling the absurd adage of life's only certainties. How awful this painting is! <br /><br />I was fortunate to have freed the afternoon so that I might share it with my son. And, sharp as he is to my bad humors, he was happy to change our plans so that we might walk the halls of the Rijkmuseum and rejoice in the paintings there. An afternoon with the old masters is enough to put me in good spirits for days.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-3810274487277673192009-03-05T20:40:00.007+01:002012-02-18T02:08:50.765+01:00Cornelis Anthonisz<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc34FmpQP_x3e0z_OhOKM1TDTgn-Xld4hu7saD4TG1TfjVu1kmxEEd-K_mb8sdUJmMyUn67GKnwU5aDu8FGXrPNystlmxChuq3zUNAuljvLyFqbxOjQc3YFOeJjXRQhKCFQ7bpmCjknwj/s1600/pizzaparty.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc34FmpQP_x3e0z_OhOKM1TDTgn-Xld4hu7saD4TG1TfjVu1kmxEEd-K_mb8sdUJmMyUn67GKnwU5aDu8FGXrPNystlmxChuq3zUNAuljvLyFqbxOjQc3YFOeJjXRQhKCFQ7bpmCjknwj/s320/pizzaparty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710276379518405730" /></a><br /><br />Cornelis Anthonisz. Banquet of Members of Amsterdam's Crossbow Guard, 1533.<br /><br />Indeed, toiling away in Cornell's Sibley Hall (home of the wonderful Fine Arts Library) during this snowy, wintry nights can be a trouble to the soul. But as I continue to compile material for my book, I find that the paintings themselves begin to warm me; I feel in them a depth of camaraderie that I (to be completely honest) do not always feel even in the company of my colleagues here at the University – where I am, at the moment, a scholar in residence. But at the banquet tables of Anthonisz, Hals, and Hoegstraaten, I am warmed by their candles, soothed by the scents of their breads.<br /><br />Here, in one of Anthonisz's lesser paintings (I admit so much), we see the early birthings of this style that I love so much. I readily admit, of course, that the composition is nearly medieval; the psychologies of these men, the crossbow guard, barely developed; the perspectival and painterly techniques just at the cusp of a true master. (Please, reader, see past my rashness: one need not be a master to stir the heart!)<br /><br />But one hardly needs to analyse technique or theory to <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>a painting. Here I must hand over commentary to one Nils Poepjes, assistant to Cornelis Anthonisz from 1530-1538, whose journals have been utterly indispensible in my research (again, thank you, Cornell University):<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Here today at the banquet of the CIVIC GUARD I found myself in awe of such a lustrous and delectable spread as I or Cornelis have ever seen – at once we felt ourselves hollow shells, empty stomachs entire; how long it has been since our dinner consisted of anything, anything but Kraft singles and white bread! And yet as Cornelis began to paint I began an interior catalog of the lushness even as Cornelis began his visual one:<br /><br />A DiGiorno* pizza – imagine that – cooked in the Guard's new convection oven, served with ranch dressing, with chilly, delicious ice cream sandwiches for dessert; an ostentatious bong, which never ceased to waft the room in fragrant smoke; a seemingly endless pile of marijuana buds from which the Guard's members plucked their fill with nary a care for cost. Indeed, the Guardsmen were fond of attempting to draw Cornelis' and my attention to their larder, perhaps (I hope, at least – would that they were not being rude!) making offers unawares that Cornelis and I take no breaks and can brook no distractions during our work.<br /></span><br /><br /></blockquote>* It must be noted that while frozen pizzas today are often afterthoughts, cheap eats, at the time of Anthonisz, ovens were such a rarity that frozen pizzas were reserved only for those with time and money; delivery services like Papa John's were thought, in the words of Poepjes, "uncouth and low."Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-61852179092225977752009-02-20T18:55:00.005+01:002009-02-23T15:14:38.264+01:00Caravaggio<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNnmnarXWh17zxhMyIRoZeJUEQOwisuO4uFVjnhUnKeHZR2i1ybOSSesQAfWlHScPS8tLbCfPKeGToVaT9x1Y7FGhGxLRgqtf-d5pUgkjX191UfOJrKyK7hYbdnw5UlcwX1uJsDPVnf4a/s1600-h/magic-cards.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNnmnarXWh17zxhMyIRoZeJUEQOwisuO4uFVjnhUnKeHZR2i1ybOSSesQAfWlHScPS8tLbCfPKeGToVaT9x1Y7FGhGxLRgqtf-d5pUgkjX191UfOJrKyK7hYbdnw5UlcwX1uJsDPVnf4a/s320/magic-cards.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304945597380771906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Caravaggio. The Cardsharps, c. 1596.<br /><br />Please, let me preface this – forgive my absence! I contracted a rather awful case of pneumonia while on an otherwise quite enjoyable "rain hike" in Northumberland. While my recovery period was long, and the illness was quite serious, I did enjoy my surroundings, and my snug room provided me with the perfect setting for reading and re-reading some of my guiltiest pleasures (as I was without my stack of much-neglected journals of art criticism – colleagues, do forgive me; Prof. Witz, I owe you commentary on your brilliant treatise about indoor gardening in the 18th century!): gothic novels!<br /><br />But let me present to you now a painting that represents a turning point for an artist who truly needs no introduction, painted shortly after he left his first position of employment in the arts (which I will soon describe to you) – it represents, for me, perhaps more than any other painting, the artist's molting from being mere workman, artificer, decorator, to prophet, seer, preserver of daily life's fleeting beauties.<br /><br />Caravaggio, for some time before his "big break" (so to speak) painted the miniatures that adorned cards for the collectible card game (CCG) Magic: The Gathering – surely a boring, menial task for a man of Caravaggio's scintillating brilliance. Here, he seems to comment on that previous employment; what ought to be a scene of casual, charming, trivial <span style="font-style: italic;">divertisment</span> hides a brutal take on the lengths to which humans go for the sake of competition and collection.<br /><br />A close look at the painting reveals the game afoot: a well-heeled boy in velvet is the target of a dupe; the lad opposing him receives a signal from his partner regarding the cards held by his opponent (and perhaps regarding his strategy) – he slips from his belt a previously concealed "Counterspell" card, sure to change the game for his favor. The cup of Dunkin Donuts© coffee would indicate that the game has been in progress for quite some time: it is unlikely to be morning, given the circumstances, so it is probable that the setting is late at night, with the coffee having been purchased more for its function than for enjoyment.<br /><br />And this game's stakes are not low. A cursory glance would tell that the stack of Pogs© in the left-hand corner of the painting, on the part of the table that protrudes into the viewer's space, is the ante here – but a discerning eye (and the aid of an issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Wizard</span> magazine) reveals, on the table between the two, a "Black Lotus" card from the "Alpha" collection of Magic: The Gathering, whose value even in Caravaggio's time (shortly after the "Mirage" collection's release) was not by any means small. The ruse is made more cutting by the presence of a delicate pipe – likely shared under the guise of friendship.<br /><br />The most important aspect of this painting, to me, is Caravaggio's delicacy in handling both a criticism of his former employers and in creating a scene of lyrical power, a dangerous game, a children's game, but one whose meaning runs so deep that any sensitive viewer might feel an uneasy twinge at the commonness of that selfish, competitive feeling that must drive our two rogues.Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-12304234206758989042009-01-26T06:02:00.004+01:002009-01-27T17:39:55.931+01:00Jans Davidsz de Heem<a href=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxc_RwxhVFAmg74E3frfe2vgKWew0j4wAqPCB-98b0SWUkdkxoVY1Z8gb_ViKOjq1xMyNMI77XjuTDh2cd0d4z4VAW-d9p4N6yVJMPUF0Q9U0Jl4xo1RMUoyWD7xyjlwkU9pCo3bxLG0/s720/jandavidszdeheemstillifebooks1628.jpg><br /><img src=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxc_RwxhVFAmg74E3frfe2vgKWew0j4wAqPCB-98b0SWUkdkxoVY1Z8gb_ViKOjq1xMyNMI77XjuTDh2cd0d4z4VAW-d9p4N6yVJMPUF0Q9U0Jl4xo1RMUoyWD7xyjlwkU9pCo3bxLG0/s720/jandavidszdeheemstillifebooks1628.jpg width=400 border=0></a><br /><br />Jans Davidsz de Heem. Still Life with Books, 1628<br /><br />On a Sunday snowed in I find myself pulling drawers and perusing neglected bookshelves. I often do my best to put extra work into the fermenting essay or the nearly-completed set of footnotes. On days of severe weather I am sometimes kept from my ritual diversions from sitting and writing. My woodshed, at the edge of our property, is snowbound as well. While I am trapped in, from my shed I am kept <em>out</em>. Moving from the house and across the field is a large task itself, but digging out the door to the shed usually extolls all the energy I had stored for my lathe and planes. Alas, I turn to fill my time with activities less cumbersome. <br /><br />Today I took to a tattered copy of Sunday Times crosswords. While racking my memory for the answer to 42 Across (8 letters): Rastafarian incarnate and Ethiopian Emperor (answer: SELASSIE) my mind wandered through the world of recreational linguistics. A list of games formed in my mind: the Surrelaists' Exquisite Corpse, Scrabble, the games Okki-taal and Panovese Kal from my childhood, the word Jumble that my niece uses to practice her English, Hangman, Pig-Latin and, finally, Mad Libs. Of course my mind was immediately evacuated so that it might be occupied with the splendors of Jans Davidsz de Heem's Still Life with Books. <br /><br />De Heem was trained in Utrecth by <a href=http://onfamiliarthings.blogspot.com/2008/09/balthasar-van-der-ast.html>Balthasar van der Ast </a> and his earlier work illustrates the influence of his instructor. In this later work de Heem had begun painting in a tradition of his own. Rather than the natural objects regularly found in the works of van der Ast - the seashells, the flowers and inching snails, buzzing insects - de Heem often favored a display of the manmade. <br /><br />In doing so de Heem doesn't totally abandon the master; his lesson book is not closed. While the objects that occupy van der Ast's paintings are not fabricated by man the arrangements in his scenes are. The swollen fruit, woven baskets and ornate, hand-harvested shells have been arranged with a personal touch. A fly or snail is invited to join the scene not by the artist but by the appetizing natural objects he has selected. <br /><br />De Heem's still lifes demonstrate their human fabrications as well. Here we see the desk of an enthusiastic student. The scene is cluttered with tattered books and leaves of Mad Libs. All of the puzzles have been completed, it would appear one right after the next. They are strewn about the table with a compassion and appreciation characterized, oddly enough, by their haphazard treatment. As one is completed it is frantically discarded so that the next might be explored in full. In a fervor of inspiration, as a writer reaching for the blank leaf or a painter thoughtlessly refreshing his palette, the Mad Libs have been devoured. <br /><br />In what some call games or hobbies, explored on weekends or in the backs of newspapers, others find their calling. There is the weekend furniture maker, the after-school painter and the car-ride reader. Here de Heem has offered us a scene of the improviser of verbs, adverbs and plural nouns. In creating this piece he encourages us to reconsider the familiar and to pay a finer attention to what is most often neglected.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-92096994162612401222009-01-22T05:35:00.006+01:002009-01-22T15:48:49.190+01:00Frans Hals<a href=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41z8Mh_MZtKrt9NKfkEW-t2uhUQh2d3WttoBhNWQh40dT_41iJ-GlnRPAFWz4dR-4muzRrpGskMaWDtiOkzxidROqTvde2nczOm-Bep97dPJccDBvIcwCv9sER43NYc6rVUyi5QZASDs/s720/hals.jpg><img src=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41z8Mh_MZtKrt9NKfkEW-t2uhUQh2d3WttoBhNWQh40dT_41iJ-GlnRPAFWz4dR-4muzRrpGskMaWDtiOkzxidROqTvde2nczOm-Bep97dPJccDBvIcwCv9sER43NYc6rVUyi5QZASDs/s720/hals.jpg width=400 border=0></a><br /><br />Frans Hals. Regents of the Old Men's Alms House, 1664.<br /><br />These darker months are a fine time for fraternization. Winter is an exciting season where the cold tempts us to bundle our clothes, savor warm and heavy foods and defend against the chill with strong drink. And who better to share in these delights than our close friends and colleagues? When the days are shorter time passes strangely. As we enter our favorite basement tavern or ground-floor pub following an afternoon lecture the evening has already turned black. A short gathering can feel as if it were stretched across several hours once the sun has receded; the measurement by its shadows is lost. Our lethargy is encouraged by the threat of cold. We seek the warmth of another drink and shiver with the thought of leaving the comfort of our compatriots for the cutting winds. Our excursions into friendships become grand, and our revelry can become excessive. Ah, the wonder! The stasis of a winter gathering often matches (and surely Prof. Peeters would agree) the agile meandering and bar-stool swapping of the summertime. <br /><br />In Hals' painting of a group of regents we find a similar wintery scene. Hals was famously destitute at the time of this painting and aged well into his eighties. Though he had struggled with debts through all of his professional life it was the charity of a few bags of peat that helped the painter through the winter of 1664, without which he would have died. The facilitators of this charity were the Regents seated here (or a group nearly identical). <br /><br />For this commissioned piece objectivity was likely Hals' greatest struggle. The impoverished artist was reliant on his sitters for his survival. Working coatless in a frigid tavern he had to maintain concentration in the face of the regents' obvious spoils. They were made comfortable by their heavy cloaks, their finely-made hats, the humming warmth of a neon lamp and - according to Hals' diary - "a small but swollen velvet purse from which bouquets of cannabis poured like granules from a canister of salt." <br /><br />The painting, once completed, bore Hals finest hallmarks (forgive the inadvertent pun!). Point to any of the regents' cloaks and the color there will be described as black. But note the varieties of this single shade! The blacks mix with reds and blues, fluctuating in the ripples of fabric and light. The tones of the regents' skins take similar shape. Our group is a rosy one. The man with the dangling cigarette, judging by the flush of his skin, may be enjoying himself a bit more than the other fellows. To our right we find a gentleman who may be abstaining from the merriment; note his faint complexion. Though his gloved fingers suggest he is fighting for warmth his fallow skin indicates that he may have been "thin-blooded." <br /><br />Though we may not delight in Hals' circumstances we may be thankful for the mastery of his hand. And while we may squint at the group of regents to whom Hals was indentured they may stand to remind us of our own friends, close and familiar as they are.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-80710557080047311342009-01-07T03:12:00.005+01:002009-01-08T04:57:29.017+01:00Job Adriaenszoon Berckheyde<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2_tLx2By86fK-yqUKgaj9syY7EfqI6BZeGtdnPt3dX9Rz9lGAh670w9WWcFhCrmwSxa6e7pzZ809W7nuYrHvckRLQOXxnYvMl9HLbeVZNepQlcILVqvHGn5r7diNp-iNq4d8e9U_R8BB/s1600-h/dealer.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2_tLx2By86fK-yqUKgaj9syY7EfqI6BZeGtdnPt3dX9Rz9lGAh670w9WWcFhCrmwSxa6e7pzZ809W7nuYrHvckRLQOXxnYvMl9HLbeVZNepQlcILVqvHGn5r7diNp-iNq4d8e9U_R8BB/s320/dealer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288369227350721474" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Job Adriaenszoon Berckheyde. A Dealer in His "Office," 1672.<br /><br />Most of you probably know Berckheyde for his lavish, stimulating views of Dutch church interiors. Indeed, he was a master of utilizing perspective as an emotionally evocative aesthetic tool even as he dazzled the eye with seemingly endless vaults and naves -- but Berckheyde, like so many of his countrymen, found spiritual founts among simpler things. His genre paintings are often overlooked in favor of the aforementioned urban and ecclesiastical works, but I find such pleasure among his less sumptuous subjects!<br /><br />Here we have a common 17th Century Dutch occurrence: a visit to one's choice supplier. As others have noted, there is something of a class imbalance here; the buyer, as he bumbles with his purse, is watched almost mockingly by the dealer and his chap. His grotty attire contrasts with the sumptuous colors and drapery of the dealer and his furnishings. The heavy curtains seem to part and allow us to look upon a private affair. The tiles and the receding perspective into the dealer's bedroom (indicated by the Dave Matthews Band's European tour poster, something unlikely to be shown in Dutch sitting rooms of the time and reserved only for private chambers) allow us a moment to revel in Berckheyde's trenchant mastery of perspective.<br /><br />Despite this comedy of class, the dealer is a relatable figure: his eyes are understanding and observant; the grinder in his lap shows that he cares for his friends, despite their social standing; and the Dilbert comic above his desk lets us, viewers from another age, in on a little joke. Ah, life -- how mundane, how beautiful! Sit back, as I am, with a cup of tea, and take a moment to cherish the everyday.Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-6235771273133922232009-01-02T06:10:00.009+01:002009-01-04T18:04:04.046+01:00Gustave Courbet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnFVtzAZ34OoPP7jQDvfAPPGSytpVkkgHhdOKAmkExB7Com5T69zKKAWE_UO8YBuY8UUr2r7KXQMCBRwyEMEosBHJk1DJZJDUKrIKSm_nJs_KVR9lyNaGYEOJJW0mpmIRrJMVeuuiIDpy/s1600-h/courb206.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnFVtzAZ34OoPP7jQDvfAPPGSytpVkkgHhdOKAmkExB7Com5T69zKKAWE_UO8YBuY8UUr2r7KXQMCBRwyEMEosBHJk1DJZJDUKrIKSm_nJs_KVR9lyNaGYEOJJW0mpmIRrJMVeuuiIDpy/s320/courb206.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287485425553585906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Gustave Courbet. Le Guitarrero, 1844.<br /><br />It may seem odd for me to feature Courbet here, he being somewhat outside the family of painters we study (and outside the realm of my scholarship, apart from simple appreciation!) -- but truly he is a kindred spirit of Hals, Claesz, Holbein, and our other heroes, by simple fact of his unerring commitment to the representation of <span style="font-style: italic;">simple truth.</span><br /><br />Here we have a beautiful example of that commitment. But, more deeply, we have a study -- perhaps an appreciation, rather? -- of the artist's craft in general, which takes place on two levels: the appreciation of the artist's communion with nature (nature serving as a meditation on truth, of course); and, second, of the communion the artist makes with truth in his translation of object to art.<br /><br />Nature, of course, is endlessly inspiring; countless painters have made their careers on portraying its plunging depths, its sweet wisdoms, its soaring highs. The young man playing his guitar is communing with nature, then. His eyes lift heavenward. His papers, matches, and fresh joint, in the hands of a Courbet, seem alert and full of energy. He gingerly plucks what looks to be a C Major chord, his hand already moving for the next chord change, probably inspired by what all of us have experienced in nature: sitting, letting nature <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">be</span></span>, breathing sincerely and deeply of the piney silence. The young man realizes that life, as we live it, as artists live it, is a struggle against inertia, a vigorous thrust toward <span style="font-style: italic;">living</span> and not just <span style="font-style: italic;">life.</span>Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-12787807931853039142008-12-26T18:04:00.003+01:002008-12-26T18:20:32.057+01:00Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velásquez<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1sZOzO3TQgYD9V7diMsuyOf_iwa_sBiLiSX1PRORleD1_pSYmHloM3IRjvpt635ilkq79lhr1solNIAfxr4TPEwD7Kwa5c5M4xoWUQesaDDBZshEtVEQnpuTqDB9hw99iVwtexgK__TkX/s1600-h/booberry.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1sZOzO3TQgYD9V7diMsuyOf_iwa_sBiLiSX1PRORleD1_pSYmHloM3IRjvpt635ilkq79lhr1solNIAfxr4TPEwD7Kwa5c5M4xoWUQesaDDBZshEtVEQnpuTqDB9hw99iVwtexgK__TkX/s320/booberry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284146196388896418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velásquez. Holiday Breakfast with Booberry and Joint, 1618.<br /><br />Ah, <a href="http://onfamiliarthings.blogspot.com/2008/12/floris-gerritsz-van-schooten-ii.html">Professor Wundrum's holiday post</a> did dredge up the memories -- long walks in the snow in Leiden, holiday trips to Zaanse Schans, huddling under the covers to await Sinterklaas! I must say, this holiday season was not terribly different for me, though instead of traipsing amongst the canals of Holland, I basked in the glow of the beautiful tree at Rockefeller Center! New York City is truly a wonder. And instead of waiting for Sinterklaas, as I did as a boy, I hid my present to myself (a new stocking cap stuffed full of candied plums) under my tea cozy and went to bed early to finish <a href="http://www.granta.com/Magazine/Granta-104">the most recent issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Granta</span>.</a><br /><br />Indeed, the <span style="font-style: italic;">wakker en bak </span>subjects of Velásquez's painting (A Spaniard! Few painted lush buds with such raw, sensual emotion!) remind me muchly of my childhood -- a bottle of Mr. Boston's egg nog, a fresh box of Booberry (a seasonal dish, meaning that one must save it for at least a month in order to enjoy it during the holidays!), a smouldering joint.<br /><br />And much like my own experience, the three men (an elder, a virile youth, a child) are frugal and perhaps poor, but their enjoyment of the Christmas spirit is undiminished. I must say that I enjoy this, one of Velásquez's earliest post-apprenticeship paintings, more than some of his later courtly paintings; perhaps his embroilment in the intrigues of Philip II curbed his impulses toward the lower classes, or perhaps he simply became too comfortable. Ah, well -- we have this, for now! And for me, there is a bag of freshly candied plums from Harry & David, and and Siri Hustvedt on the anxiety of influence! Merry Christmas to all!Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-7214592136178684032008-12-26T03:08:00.003+01:002008-12-26T03:40:59.063+01:00Floris Gerritsz Van Schooten II<a href=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8I1PWVKPszbHpkELLXf-YXF5oUPMR3Hq4f6lRDSk0CwHDJzxRtRL_tDVD9vpLrPQWEANv0pea5GkRAwWzgTt0hOMsFF2v3F5gKWtoUK95YRHMyVlMDjH0ZPip9fIr2Sz_dPfcQEO-xJE/s720/gerritsz2.jpg><img src=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8I1PWVKPszbHpkELLXf-YXF5oUPMR3Hq4f6lRDSk0CwHDJzxRtRL_tDVD9vpLrPQWEANv0pea5GkRAwWzgTt0hOMsFF2v3F5gKWtoUK95YRHMyVlMDjH0ZPip9fIr2Sz_dPfcQEO-xJE/s720/gerritsz2.jpg width=400 border=0></a><br /><br />Floris Gerritsz Van Schooten. Christmas Breakfast, 1621<br /><br />This morning, while walking to feed the pigs, I was struck by the sharp calm on our farm. I was reminded of a boyhood Christmas in Vaalserberg, peering from the window of my Aunt Femek's cabin at the just-fallen snow. There was a certain peace when the snow had stopped. A gauzy layer wrapped the trees, carriages and outer houses. In the evenness of light the distant hills seemed to disappear as the ground and sky bled together. The cabin swelled with the aromas of frying ham and oliebollen baking in the oven. Admiring the snow my thoughts slowed. My mind slipped away from the excitement of the oil paints and walnuts that Sinterklaas had left me to absorb the monochromatic landscape. Of course Floris Gerritsz Van Schooten's Christmas Breakfast appeared vividly in my mind. <br /><br />Much like Van Schooten's 1621 painting, <a href=http://onfamiliarthings.blogspot.com/2008/11/floris-gerritsz-van-schooten.html> Still life with Larder, farmyard fowl, a turkey, pigeons, a plover, duck, a starling, partridge and snipe, with game and songbirds and rabbits suspended from nails, a rib of beef, a bong and an artichoke, grape, with copper pans, watched by a couple seated at the end of a table, a landscape with two men visible through the embrasure </a>, the scene presents an abundance of food. The table is laid with a hearty Christmas breakfast: puffy breads and rich cheeses, an overflowing plate of oliebollen, pears and apples, a carton of egg nog and an oozing bean pie. The plate of butter and the one-hitter heighten the mood. We can expect a lifelike rendering from any work by Van Schooten (an early master of the genre) but here the pipe and melty butter signify indulgence. Christmas is a time when familiar things become new and sensational. A morning meal is more rich than the previous day's, the cheese is sharper, the rolls are chewier, the weed more sticky. On this Christmas morning I hope that you and yours might enjoy Van Schooten's scene with refreshed senses. Merry Christmas!Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-55760448324368005922008-12-12T05:02:00.007+01:002008-12-17T15:30:44.408+01:00Jan Steen II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9mSu6bhTUn8s_KsUwFeJ0fDqGYF8ER_DaToYUNXvRDI67vOFniXKTfJaNc6TWYPPYB64qZdIq7UEIvJhajuVGCTwUSLCGivcnrZgyvMu3E__Jxcm6kiTM3BB-Nx_CCU9FMk9XuVPVcMF/s1600-h/dungeonsdragons.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9mSu6bhTUn8s_KsUwFeJ0fDqGYF8ER_DaToYUNXvRDI67vOFniXKTfJaNc6TWYPPYB64qZdIq7UEIvJhajuVGCTwUSLCGivcnrZgyvMu3E__Jxcm6kiTM3BB-Nx_CCU9FMk9XuVPVcMF/s320/dungeonsdragons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278753056893297170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jan Steen. Argument over a Role-Playing Game. Date unknown.<br /><br />A lovely reminder of one of my youthful pastimes: role-playing games! I confess, I lived a lonely youth. I was a solemn boy. And yet, during those summer months when my family left the pastoral (yet restrictive) bounds of Culemborg, and traveled to see our relations in Amsterdam and its environs, I played hours upon hours of Dungeons & Dragons with my cousin Per (who is, not incidentally, now a very well-known fantasy novelist in our home country). Steen himself was an avid gamer and frequently slipped references to his hobbies into his paintings, lovingly crafted scenes of everyday life. Here he has made it the centrepiece.<br /><br />Of course, Steen recognized the vices associated with gaming: sloth, envy, detachment from reality. One can lose oneself in such games, and Steen knew this; his keen psychological insight penetrated every soul in his paintings, revealing wickedness and beauty alike – witness the Dungeon Master's face here, his gaze crushing diagonally across the painting's composition to lock eyes with the man whose character he has likely just put to an end – the action surges in a brutal wave upward and out from the table, ripping physical violence from the imagined realms of conniving rogues and menacing wizards. Witness the slow fall of the swordsman's drawing of his character (probably a mage).<br /><br />Thus the moral here: these are but games. Steen, brilliantly, has revealed the meta-worlds within his painting; but his true brilliance is in bridging the psychological gap of imagined world (again, a meta-reference – the painting is an imagined world, bridged from the reality of Steen to the worldless brilliance of art-language!) and the physical world – view Steen, and view the vertiginous abyss between what we know and what we think.Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-51497001677837579462008-12-05T03:19:00.003+01:002008-12-14T22:15:24.200+01:00Hendrick Jansz ter Brugghen<a href=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1TL6wrmZrmSO-bh9dgzhfdwJ3dvmkrdFNUOV6GaCydFEE0ZwGH_eEfspL0ZTM1BhuvNo9TGXffgz8oAGo1Qj4GgANTYFC0_QHTMiW5Vwzil81e5qt07hNaK6gcVjJhEaYFjsiKJ-nb-Y/s512/hendrickterbrugghenlaughingbravowithbassviolaandpretzel1625.jpg><img src=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1TL6wrmZrmSO-bh9dgzhfdwJ3dvmkrdFNUOV6GaCydFEE0ZwGH_eEfspL0ZTM1BhuvNo9TGXffgz8oAGo1Qj4GgANTYFC0_QHTMiW5Vwzil81e5qt07hNaK6gcVjJhEaYFjsiKJ-nb-Y/s512/hendrickterbrugghenlaughingbravowithbassviolaandpretzel1625.jpg width=400></a><br />Hendrick Jansz ter Brugghen. Laughing Bravo with Bass Viola and Pretzel, 1625<br /><br />Though known chiefly for his religious paintings this genre piece allows both the artist and the viewer to remain nimble. The musician is a reminder that the sublime can extend beyond the damask. The player may be described as ugly and uncomfortable, tired and filthy but Ter Brugghen reaches beyond these surface matters. Note the brilliantly rendered folds in the shirtsleeves: crevice and shadow. And to the right, the viola's veneer. But Ter Brugghen has not presented us with a mere portrait. Although no doubt based on one of the itinerant musicians who traveled in the Netherlands at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the subject is most probably an allegory. Here the senses of Hearing (the bass viol) and Taste (the pretzel). It is also possible that the artist is illustrating the theme of vanitas whereby the brevity of a joint is equated with a short life-span.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-38456074102431712962008-11-27T18:53:00.006+01:002008-12-03T22:34:54.439+01:00Jan Steen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zmQyOebCYvCpb-0D0kBB4cXmSfsvzfYuM3VsZDx3XGWMOFHQ3GhQKlXKeteh_vIzCgUp3aiEb8F9lS6rC14MrJnIbSCxbRzcRGl905jvVBm7gcnRJGU2YyAweYQX7SLMbjprRFiwxVdm/s1600-h/beanfest.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zmQyOebCYvCpb-0D0kBB4cXmSfsvzfYuM3VsZDx3XGWMOFHQ3GhQKlXKeteh_vIzCgUp3aiEb8F9lS6rC14MrJnIbSCxbRzcRGl905jvVBm7gcnRJGU2YyAweYQX7SLMbjprRFiwxVdm/s320/beanfest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273770461491994098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jan Steen. The Bean Feast, 1668.<br /><br />A gift for my American friends! Even as I rush hurriedly from conference to conference, I have time to remember the gift of peace that the colonial Americans gave to the Natives, and the good feelings, feasts, and fests to which it gave rise!<br /><br />Of course, Steen's painting of a Bean Feast is not quite apropos Thanksgiving, but nevertheless, it is a perfect depiction of the kind of familial good time that I hope my friends across the Young Country are having today. The Bean Feast, of course, was originally a winter festival among farm workers, at which a cake with a bean inside would be cut and distributed among the festival-goers: he or she who was lucky enough to get the bean would be the Bean King (or Queen) and thus preside over the festivities. In this painting, Steen's grasp of charm and frivolity is on full, resplendent display: a young boy has been chosen for the King (likely his first Bean Feast); a nun holds and lights his Sherlock pipe as the revelers look on, surely delighting in the comic nature of the scene. (Note, too, Steen's immaculate brushwork in the Magic Eye poster: he truly delighted in hiding nuggets of this sort in his paintings, and it is a treat for the art historian and amateur alike to find them! And consider the technical difficulty in painting the clouds of smoke!)<br /><br />Ah, though I write this from a library in New Haven, I recall my young days at Bean Feasts, the custom of which has not changed a whit since Mr. Steen painted this lovely treasure – and I am sure that Professor Wundrum does as well (though I was not as lucky as he – I was never the Bean King!): delicious foods (herring, turkey, breads of many sorts, pizzas, fresh fruits, cakes), wreaths of heady smoke, psychedelic music, and the company of dear friends. Happy Thanksgiving!Jan Peetershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10692242013252009637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5016510789306208693.post-86626158024977659662008-11-22T05:46:00.004+01:002008-12-14T22:14:39.366+01:00Pieter Gerritsz Van Roestraeten<a href=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2RCwtVySrRtWNBo38kIpbFxquGhW_QZsHG5bYZuvOtwq4-NiZBaz5gUJ6hkssdWvCJ9Vx2hKGhyLTqHuGb4sNotLDOY4geNSmsj3i7wYyMXWOyx2ZzkS2KhZRS47slwYmaNNm73XMjI/s640/roestraeten.jpg><img src=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2RCwtVySrRtWNBo38kIpbFxquGhW_QZsHG5bYZuvOtwq4-NiZBaz5gUJ6hkssdWvCJ9Vx2hKGhyLTqHuGb4sNotLDOY4geNSmsj3i7wYyMXWOyx2ZzkS2KhZRS47slwYmaNNm73XMjI/s640/roestraeten.jpg width=400 border=0></a> <br /><br />Pieter Gerritsz Van Roestraeten. Chinese Tea Bowls, 17th century.<br /><br />Roestraeten was one of the most successful Dutch painters working in England, moving to London in the 1660s and remaining there until his death. Though his painting remained characteristically Dutch, his success was perhaps largely dependent on his ability to portray glass in pipe and cup form, alike. <br /><br />Van Roestraeten presents a lamentably English scene: afternoon tea. There is a dull edge to the daylight here, the cups and kettle appear to be slouching. There is a depression in the painting, as if Van Roestraeten himself were distracted. The tones suggest a wanton mind; while Pieter painted his likely-commissioned work he dreamed of the relief that comes with the common tea break. Though painting the London aristocracy's most common scene Van Roestraeten holds tightly to the precision of his Dutch predecessors. The edges of the kettle make a sharp appearance before ducking quickly into the shadows; the candy cane colors of the piece sweep into the black and frictionless tabletop; the milk-sweetened teas shimmer in their cups. While the painter tightens the strings of attention and wrings the rag of concentration he is unable to shake a hopeful thought for release. Release from commissions for a time to reflect, to savor and to neglect the tasks that have filled the day and those that will round it out. Despite Van Roestraeten's disinterest the representations are as sharp as this morning's razor.Hermann Wundrumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17409802079503426677noreply@blogger.com7