We read Martin Gladwell’s Blink for my museum studies seminar — a bestseller that focuses on the importance of those inexplicable moments of intinct. In the first chapter, he talks about the Getty Kouros  controversy.  Curators at the Getty, looking over the Greek statue for months, became convinced of its authenticity and purchased it at great price; yet others, such as Thomas Hoving, former director of the Metropolitan, saw it at first glance and simply knew it could not be real.  Whether or not the Kouros is a forgery or not remains unknown, but Gladwell argues that those first glace, gut-instinct moments should not be ignored.

Attributed to Vermeer, A Young Woman Seated at the Virginals, currently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Click image for larger view)

I had a “blink” moment in front of the controversial Vermeer now on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I wrote about a few months ago.  As I walked through the Italian Renaissance rooms to the Dutch Golden Age galleries, I was completely ready to dismiss the Vermeer as a fake.  After all, in reproductions we’d viewed in my seminar, it looked so preposterous: a huge yellow shawl, blank walls, ringlets in her hair and those hands (click the image to the right to view it closeup, and you’ll understand what I mean).  But when I walked in to the room, turned the corner, and marched straight up to the little painting, the first thought that popped into my mind was: Wow, it really is a Vermeer.

It took me a good twenty minutes or more in the room — happily, surrounded by almost all of the Met’s authenticated Vermeers for comparison — to put my fingers on exactly why my gut instinct was so positive.  The second thought in my mind was when I looked at the ribbons in the figure’s hair.  They are painted with such care but at the same time such simplicity — a single pulling of bright red paint, a few daubs of white — that immediately made me think of a very similar detail in the Louvre’s Lacemaker (see gallery below): the red and white threads pooling over the pincushion are painted with just as much care.  Interestingly, the ringlet hairstyle I’d originally considered so odd appears in that very painting, too. Moreover, the Lacemaker is about the same size as this intimate, small painting.

As for her hands and the strange, almost blurry quality of the painting style — both are actually pretty consistent with the late style of Vermeer.  The Woman at the Virginals (see gallery below) in the National Gallery in London is a prime example of this late style: glassy eyes, a somewhat vacant expression, less outright attention to anatomy (those hands), and a thicker, flatter, and less paint-dappled touch than in earlier works like the Rijksmuseum Maid with a Milk Pitcher, where even loaves of bread seem to sparkle in midday light.  But they do retain some of Vermeer’s well-known style, especially in the soft quality of light.  Just a few canvases over from the Young Woman at the Virginals is the Met’s own Study of a Young Woman (see gallery below).  The soft contour of her cheek against the black background — identical to that of the infamous Girl with a Pearl Earring in the Hague — can barely be called a contour, as it melts into a soft non-edge of light.  I found that same quality (though not quite as stunning) in the curls and neck of the Young Woman in question.

Of course, I guess a forger could have looked at the late Lacemaker and Woman at the Virginals and decided to create some sort of merging of the two: the hands and virginal theme of the London piece, with the size, hairstyle and tiny detailing (down to the very same colors) of the Louvre work.  It’s not totally out of the question.  But even as I stood in front of that painting trying to play devil’s advocate of my first gut reaction, I was sucked in by the ribbons and the soft, melting outlines of her face into the wall behind her — feelings I have to say I’ve only really felt in front of real Vermeers.  And I couldn’t help but remember Gladwell’s Blink and the importance of first impressions that we’d discussed in my seminar.

Of course, I’m an undergrad, albeit one with a great love of Vermeer — so I’m certainly not trying to put myself at the same level of Thomas Hoving or Walter Liedtke, curator of Northern Art at the Met, who just published this work in his recent monograph on the famous Dutch artist, adding that the odd yellow shawl was probably painted over this “minor” late work of Vermeer.  Who knows if this work is a forgery or not? — I certainly don’t, and maybe we never will know for sure; but till then, I’m content to think fondly of those gorgeous ribbons, the softness of her curls against the whitewashed wall, and the memories they stir up about the Vermeers I was lucky enough to see in Paris and the Netherlands.

What do you think? Have you seen this “new” Vermeer? Tell us your thoughts in the comments…

Photos from the Met and Reference Comparisons

Caravaggio was not always a ‘trendy’ artist.  Before museums dedicated exhibitions solely to him, before monographs were written by art historians, indeed before a bestselling non-fiction art-crime book was published about his lost painting, Caravaggio was reluctantly accepted by collectors in the US as an artist primarily associated with genre painting, and nothing much more.  (Genre painting is the depiction of every day life).

What they didn’t really bother to collect were his religious works, which most art historians today agree are really the best of his works.  In his religious works, the young, controversial, forward-thinking artist of the 17th century combines his observations of every day life, stark experimentations with light sources, and clever use of what seem to be dank, monochromatic compositions into beautifully subtle and “realistic” religious paintings.  I’ve seen a few pretty amazing Caravaggios in Italy (particularly in the Galleria Borghese, if you have the luck to visit!), but the Met went out of its way to acquire this very late Caravaggio in 1997 when it came on the auction market, and it’s a good thing they did, because it’s pretty awesome.

The Met’s curator of European Paintings, Keith Christiansen, suspects is one of the very last paintings the artist did.  My favorite part about this painting is the light source and how cleverly Caravaggio uses it.  Caravaggio is known for being the founder of those “Baroque” light effects, inspiring a league of “Caravaggiesque” painters to follow in his footsteps.  Here, as often in Caravaggio’s religious works, the light acts as a religious signifier.

Caravaggio, Detail of The Denial of St. Peter, late 1590s-early 1600s, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY (Credit)

In the painting, St. Peter denies that he is a follower of Jesus to a Roman soldier as a servant girl, who suspects Peter’s true identity, looks on.  The Roman soldier is completely in the dark, showing that he has no idea of Peter’s belief in Christ; the servant girl, in partial light, is beginning to recognize Peter; and meanwhile Peter, an apostle, is in full, direct light.  This light shows who knows, who doesn’t, who believes — an amazingly revolutionary but clever and subtle way to enhance the story and the intimate image.

And a fun fact: the helmet in the painting is actually in the collection of the Museo Nazionale del Bargello in Florence, Italy (for those of you who’ve read this blog before, you know that’s one of my favorite museums in Italy!).  Unfortunately I couldn’t find a picture of the helmet itself, but it’s in there, somewhere, whether in the galleries or in storage!  Caravaggio was known to use props in his works and this one is, clearly, no exception.  Could it be that Caravaggio’s own prop helmet is, at this moment, sitting in the galleries of the Bargello?  Guess I’ll just have to go back to Florence to find out… in the meantime, visit the almost-real-thing in one of Caravaggio’s masterful last works in the Met.

Visit this Caravaggio in the European Paintings gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1000 Fifth Avenue at 82nd St., New York, NY.
Visit (or at least look for) the helmet in the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Via del Proconsolo 4, Florence, Italy.

Jacques-Louis David, The Oath of the Horatii, 1784

The Three Reasons Why Oath of the Horatii is Perfect
1. The composition. At first, it seems simple. Deceptively simple. It illustrates the story, certainly — of three youths swearing their allegiance to Rome, their city, with the blessing of their father, about to go off to war against the three sons of another family. To the side, the women and children of the family mourn the family sons’ departure, foreshadowing the deaths about to take place.What seems to be plainly laid out is actually painstakingly so. Set against a dark, muted classical background, the painting is divided into three distinct parts, each aspect clearly delineated by the background curves of an archway. From left, there is the trio of young men, leaving for war; in the center, the father acts as a bridge between the outside world and the world of the family, which is represented by the women in the right side of the painting, whose undulating curves form a melancholic collection of curves that act as a stopper for the composition. David’s placement of figures and forms in the canvas act as a way to tell the story of this history painting clearly, but also offer more subtle hints to the educated viewer, who knows what is to happen next.

2. The contrasts. The Oath is a study in contrasts: male and female, young and old, sheer will and sheer sadness. In the shapes of the figures of the men and women, the difference is clear: the men are straight, in shapes of solid triangles, wheras the mass of women to the right is more fluid and oval, curving arabesques of shape that show the contrast of their melancholic worry to blind, noble determination of the men.Within the stances of the men are the visible signs of how they differ in age and emotion. The three youths are stoic and firm, built of strong muscle and straight diagonals, making up a triangle of determined confidence. Meanwhile, though he is equally as overcome with emotion, their father’s knees buckle slightly; he leans backward in a slight curve; his feet are not on parallel ground — he is, in other words, older.

3. The details. My favorite part of the Oath, though, are its details. There are two that are my favorite, that bring even more to the story of the painting. First, look closely at the three sons and their swords:

Jacques-Louis David, The Oath of the Horatii – Detail, 1784

The end of the story is that the sons triumph over the rivaling family. But at one expense: the death of one of the sons of the rivaling family. This is particularly a bummer for the women of the Horatii family, because one of the sisters of these three brothers (who is pictured at the right of David’s painting) was betrothed to them. After they return victorious, the “widowed” sister curses Rome, distraught over the death of her beloved. So enraged by the curse of his country, one of the sons murders her in cold blood. (After this act, their father makes a speech defending this son’s honor. Oh, men, and ancient Rome…)

Anyway, can you guess from the detail above which son commits this atrocious deed? Well, if you’re looking closely, you’ll notice that one of them is enshrouded in shadow, his gaze downcast, dark, and fiercely determined. Not only this, but two more details related to this kinda evil son: his hand, which reaches above those of his brothers to the highest point. To me, I get the sense he’s ambitious to the point of obnixiousness — pushy and ruthless. And finally, check out the swords their Daddy Horatii holds: Two are bone straight, reflecting the noble honor of the sons — and one is slightly curved, pointing almost maliciously. Bet you can’t guess to which brother I suspect that curvy one belongs?

The last detail is one that was pointed out to me by my professor, a detail whose poignancy simply breaks my heart:

In the figure grouping of the nurse and the two children, we see her enshrouding them protectively with the symbolic coat of night as she mourns, hiding their faces. But one of the children, the eldest boy, pushes her hand away from his eyes as she tries to shield, to protect him from the sight of this dangerous war — his huge black eyes are transfixed by the scene before him, utterly engrossed in the Oath that’s taking place, already swept up in the blind honor, the grandiose scene happening before him, as if he’s ready himself to take an Oath, leaving behind the world of women. David even places this figure group at the very edge of the third division of the painting, along the column that separates the women from the “bridge” of the father into the dangerous realm of the nobility, and danger, of war.

Surimono are a particular kind of Japanese print that were produced during the Edo period (1615-1868). These little prints have been the focus of many exhibitions lately, and for good reason. These are sumptuous, expensive, beautiful, tiny little prints (about 6×6″) that utilize poetry as well as images, and had a specific purpose. Only made in runs of less than a hundred, surimono were sent to friends and acquaintances as new year’s greetings, to show the sender’s refined taste.

They were comissioned by the rich members of poetry clubs, who would send a short poem to a print designer, who would then assist the poet in designing an image to go along with his poem. A calligrapher would write the poem on the design, which would then be sent to a print workshop that would create the print. Thus, all aspects of a surimono were essential to the final product, and the combining of clever, simple poetry along with a masterfully created image would allow its cultured recipient to further contemplate the meaning of the poem.

Almost all of the most famous Japanese printmakers of the Edo period designed surimono, and the image to the left is an example of one by Hokusai. In it, we can see a fisherman perched on a rock; the muted color palette and elegantly written poem at the top right corner show that it is an example of a finely made print.

Albrecht Durer is one of the most famous artists of the Northern Renaissance. A German painter and printmaker, Durer was incredibly talented at detailed renderings of allegorical figures, as well as portraits and nature studies. See his photograph-like Young Hare, where you can make out the individual hairs on the rabbit’s coat; the story goes that he caught and trained the rabbit to sit still on his drawing table so he could paint a watercolor of it.

Melencolia I is a print made by Durer in 1514, and it’s a constant source of speculation for scholars because Durer includes so many symbols, a staple of Northern Renaissance art. Often interpreted as a representation of artistic “melancholy” or frustration, the print is definitely one worth exploring visually, letting your eyes get lost in the details.