“Art plucks its material, otherwise unexpressed, in the garden of life.” ~Henry James, The Ambassaors

It seems fitting, during Presidents’ Birthday month, here in the U.S., to feature the last photograph taken of Abraham Lincoln before his assassination in April 1865 (left). The burdens and losses brought on by civil strife and personal loss are writ large on the face of a man who was only 56 years old at the time Matthew Brady captured this image in his Washington, D.C. studio. This is also the month that we honor the memory of Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. and the many who risked life and limb to move our country out of a sustained period of race inequality and discrimination. The lives of these two men, ironically, now seem inextricably bound.

With the course of our history very much in mind, ARTES readers will find two recently-posted articles that attest to the struggle and the opportunities for black Americans that emerged from the crucible of those contests of will and dissent. The current exhibition mounted by the Maryland Historical Society, Divided Voices, speaks powerfully to the issues that tore a nation apart, pitting brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor and exacting such a dramatic toll on the clear-spoken man from the woods of Illinois, as he wrestled with the issues of the time. In a review by Avi Decktor, head of the Jewish Museum in Baltimore—and no stranger to the issues of prejudice—the crucial role of the battle of Antietam Creek, fought on Maryland soil, is one focus of the exhibit. Remarkably, Lincoln prayed for victory in an encounter that would take 24,000 American lives in a single day, vowing that with a Confederate defeat he would go public with a document that he had only recently drafted. Pictured (above), with Allan Pinkerton (founder of the like-named security company and precursor to the Secret Service) And Gen. McClemand at Antietam on October 3, 1862, two weeks after driving Lee’s troops back to Virginia. It would be the following day that the public would first encounter his Emancipation Proclamation in the pages of Harper’s Weekly, a widely-read publication.

One hundred years later, in 1964, African-American artist, Romare Bearden would begin experimenting with a technique of image-making that would set him on a course to fame and notoriety. His collages, known, in part, as Photomontages or Projections would have a defining and determinative impact on the black civil rights movement of the day. In an article by ARTES managing editor, Richard Friswell, the life and work of this brilliant and inventive artist are examined in the context of other creative idioms that formed the cradle of the post-war African-American intellectual movement in Harlem—literature and music. With his ethnic roots planted deeply in North Carolina soil and his artistic focus honed by life in the urban north, Bearden was able to meld folk tradition and ritual with the plight of blacks in mid-century American cities. Not only did he invent a complex visual language for understanding this variegated history, but he succeeded in moving beyond a prejudicial view of black contributions to mainstream artistic movements of the day to become a principle spokesperson for modern art in the late 20th century.

Above left: Romare Bearden, Profile/Part II, The Thirties, Harlem Brownstone (1980). Private collection

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Warm regards,

Richard Friswell, Publisher & Managing Editor

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Left: Tattered battle flag of the 4^th Regiment of U.S. Colored Troops- part of the ‘Divided Voices’ exhibition. artes fine arts magazine

A Prelude

On September 17, 1862, the armies of Lee and McClellan collided along the Antietam Creek near Sharpsburg, Maryland. In the brutal fight that followed, 25,000 soldiers were killed or wounded—the largest number of casualties in a single day in the history of American arms. The day after the battle ended, Mathew Brady ushered in a new era in photojournalism, sending two of his photographers, Alexander Gardner and James F. Gibson, to document the battlefield strewn with the bodies of the dead “so covered with dust, torn, crushed and trampled that they resembled clods of earth and you were obliged to look twice before recognizing them as human beings.”

Portable photo field studio, complete with darkroom and head-braced chair (see detail in Figure #1, below.).

That October, Brady opened an exhibition titled “The Dead of Antietam” at his New York gallery. Before descending to sentimental platitudes (“that crown which only heroes and martyrs are permitted to wear”), The New-York Times reported that “Mr. Brady has done something to bring home to us the terrible reality and earnestness of war. If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our dooryard, and along the streets, he has done something very like it.” [FIGURE 1 HERE]

As visitors approach the Divided Voices exhibition, they encounter a display of period photography and photographic practice that foreshadows key themes of the exhibition: the critical position of border-state Maryland; the divisiveness that pitted neighbor against neighbor; the transformation of war’s romance and glory into horror and revulsion. Photography also establishes the exhibition’s design ethos and ambience: large photomurals in grainy grays, set off with vivid red, inflect the exhibition, evoking the war’s fog and fire, smoke and blood.

An Overview

'Divided Voices' floor plan. Fig.#2, below. Click to enlarge

Divided Voices occupies a large (4,000 s.f.) gallery. The exhibition is shaped like a large doughnut (see the accompanying floor plan), with an enormous glass case at its center, photomurals on the peripheral wall, and pylons, vitrines, and reader rails animating the landscape between the glassed-in core and the periphery. Visitors follow a linear, counter-clockwise path, returning at the conclusion to their starting point. [FLOORPLAN HERE]

Lincoln’s 1860 election generated fears for “the safety of the Union” Fig. #3, below.

The exhibition opens with a sweeping statement by Stephen A. Douglas (1854): “We are a people for Freedom and a people for Slavery. Between the two, conflict is inevitable.” The first section of the exhibition, “A Long Road to War,” exemplifies white people’s ambivalence about slavery in Maryland. Slavery persisted in some areas, but Maryland also had the largest free African American population in any slaveholding state. In fact, African American Marylanders were almost equally divided between slaves and freedmen, and Baltimore had the largest number of free blacks of any American city. The complexities of race in 1860 Maryland are briefly noted in a single large panel at the start of the exhibition: “Slavery and African American life in Maryland was as diverse as the state’s landscapes and cultures.” [FIGURE 3 HERE]

An April 1861 Baltimore riot caused first casualties of war. Fig.#4, below.

 The presidential race of 1860 and the election of Abraham Lincoln, the Republican Party candidate, precipitated the secession of southern states. Maryland, like the other border states of Kentucky and Missouri, adhered shakily to the Union, but conflict among Marylanders intensified. The second major section of the exhibition, Divided Loyalties, shows how deeply these divisions ran, leading to riots in Baltimore in April 1861 and disruption of a critical railroad junction just 50 miles from the Federal capital. Imposition of martial law by Federal forces followed promptly (and in Baltimore lasted for the duration of the war). Here, too, contradictions abound: Baltimore Mayor George William Brown, a Southern sympathizer, vainly tried to prevent attacks on Union volunteers passing through the city, while Governor Thomas Holliday Hicks, a staunch Unionist, was himself a slaveholder. [FIGURE 4 HERE]

Zouave jackets, popular in pre-war women’s costume and related military uniform. Fig. #5, below.

In the months after Lincoln’s inauguration, thousands of Maryland men flocked to the Union and Confederate colors, anticipating a brief, heroic conflict. The romance of war faded in the face of its brutal reality. The third major section of the exhibition, “Spontaneous Combustion,” traces the process of disillusionment and describes the actual conditions of war. An exhibit on camp life stresses war’s tedium (“then drill, then drill again”), while displays on battlefield tactics, medical care, imprisonment, and mourning underscore its horrors. A torn jacket worn by Major Richard Snowden Andrews, a Maryland volunteer in the Confederate Army, exemplifies the violence of battle: the lower portion of the jacket was ripped open by an explosion; its bent buttons show the impact on Andrews’ body. Astonishingly, Andrews survived his gruesome wound, though he wore a metal plate over his abdomen for the rest of his life. As Anne Schaeffer of Frederick, Maryland, observed, “So much trouble, expense and suffering to maim and murder each other.” [FIGURE 5 HERE]

African Americans at war: USCT battle flag and a Medal of Honor winner. Fig.#6, below.

The exhibition also presents the wartime experiences of sympathizers and supporters on both sides of the conflict, especially those of women. As one Maryland woman remarked, “Never again during our lives can such opportunities for noble deeds present themselves for women.” In addition to supporting their sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers, women served as spies and nurses, raised funds for relief, sewed banners and flags. One of the many striking objects on display is a magnificent, hand-painted battle flag presented to the “4th Regiment of U.S. Colored Troops by the Colored Ladies of Baltimore.” Clara Barton and Harriet Tubman were among the Maryland women whose wartime efforts are well known, but many less-famous others, like Maria C. Hall, could look back at their wartime service with satisfaction: “I mark my Hospital days as my happiest ones.”[FIGURE 13 HERE]

The concluding area of the exhibition, The Long Reunion, recalls the aftermath of the war. Veterans’ organizations, reunions, and encampments perpetuated wartime camaraderie. Maryland Confederates far outpaced their Union counterparts in creating memorials and monuments and in publishing memoirs and histories. In effect, having lost the war, the Confederate veterans “won the peace.” As a result, the Lost Cause and the role of Marylanders in service to the Confederacy were greatly embellished. Moreover, the disaffection of Union and Confederate veterans persisted for generations after the war. Despite the overarching quote in this area (“War does not determine who is right—only who is left.”) and despite a few exceptional friendships among former enemies, the veterans “have never mixed in any manner with the other side—have no joint reunions, no joint banquets, no decoration or memorial days in common,” according to William H. Pope, Superintendent of the Maryland Line Confederate Soldiers home (1893).

Some Highlights

Divided Voices is notably successful in major ways. First, the exhibition considers a broad range of topics. The recruitment and performance of African Americans in the U.S. Colored Troops is a subject that is too little known; in this project, black soldiers are given legitimate recognition. The home front, and the roles of women in particular, are moved into the foreground, rather than being treated as an afterthought. It was unexpected in this context to find glass breast shields used by nursing women paired with a chemise with nursing slits to allow for breast feeding. Technology is given its due, both in relation to the significance of railroads and evolving weaponry, especially the remarkably destructive Minié ball. The sheer terror of battle and the horrors of maimed and slaughtered men are treated here in a compelling way.

Embedded in the exhibition are profiles of more than 30 Marylanders—black and white, notorious and unknown. Their “voices” help to personalize the issues, while providing a variety of perspectives on key events and movements. The narrative is also dramatized for visitors by two costumed living history actors representing a sergeant in the U.S. Colored Troops and the actor-assassin John Wilkes Booth; the two alternate in providing in-gallery monologues, followed by Q&A and gallery tours. Though the living history presentations are offered on a limited schedule, they are engrossing, informative, and, judging from observation of four groups of visitors, highly effective.

The “vacant chair,” abiding symbol of wartime loss. Fig.#7, below.

The real stars of Divided Voices, however, are the extraordinary array of Civil War memorabilia, much of it from the Society’s own outstanding collections. The rarity, richness, and significance of these collections are astonishing. Notable objects range from a pike used in John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry, to a single home-made sock worn by an ordinary Confederate soldier, to a “Vacant Chair” used in veterans’ ceremonies to honor those killed in the war. [FIGURE 6 HERE]

The exhibition narrative is substantiated, indeed driven, by its array of objects. In addition to the above exemplary items, Divided Voices displays a 34-star U.S. flag hung by a Lincoln supporter to celebrate his election in 1860; an apron made to resemble a Confederate flag created by a Rebel sympathizer; linen and leather haversacks and a bottle of Walnut Catsup; a mourning dress from Baltimore; a naval officer’s frock coat worn by Confederate Admiral Franklin Buchanan; and a Civil War surgeon’s kit of gleaming knives and saws, frightening in this context. The concluding section of the exhibition features two imposing and unusual objects–a large wooden cabinet that housed the “Records of the Army and Navy of the Confederate States in the State of Maryland,” displayed side-by-side with an analogous chest-on-stand from the Union Club of Baltimore (1863-1872).

Bucolic painting of Harper’s Ferry with memorabilia of John Brown’s raid. Fig.#8, below.

The objects and images are artfully displayed. At the opening of the exhibition, for example, visitors are confronted with a large, idyllic painting of Harper’s Ferry by Augustus C. Weidenbach (1863). The peaceful scene is powerfully juxtaposed with objects, images, and interpretive text that present John Brown’s violent attack on Harper’s Ferry and his subsequent execution. Brown’s abortive raid was launched from a Maryland farm and, as it happens, a Maryland militia unit were the first responders. Another artful juxtaposition is found in the exhibit on prisoners of war. A photo mural depicting a skeletal prisoner serves as backdrop for a wooden rosary, charms, bracelets, and rings carved by Confederate prisoners at Point Lookout Prison. The contrast in tone, scale, and materials is striking—and memorable. [FIGURE 2 HERE]

Other objects of folk art embellish the exhibition. The final object encountered by visitors is a shadow-box titled “Antietam National Cemetery Memorial” which was created in 1886 by John Philemon Smith, who, as a seventeen-year old, had witnessed the Battle of Antietam. This assemblage includes a list of Union soldiers who died in the battle, together with hundreds of souvenirs gathered on the battlefield. The centerpiece is a miniature replica of the Private Soldier Monument, placed at the cemetery in 1880. The effect is touching.

Quotes, photomurals, objects, and casework create a powerful effect. Fig.#9, below.

The exhibition’s clean layout and design are effective in showcasing the artifacts and in conveying the overall narrative. The enormous, room-size glass case in the center displays costume and related objects representative of the battlefield and the home front. Surrounding the central glass case are large photomurals, oversize quotes in first-person voice, free-standing reader rails, and casework displaying a wide range of military memorabilia. The graphics and quotes are well-chosen and well-executed, and the lighting and casework show off the objects and texts to great advantage. The exhibition and graphic design encourage close attention and somber reflection.[FIGURE 11 HERE]

The exhibition does have minor flaws, of course. The small size of some captions and tertiary texts makes them hard to read. The interpretive copy—main and secondary panel texts—are generally short and to the point, but some texts are choppy, assemblies of simple declarative sentences presumably written that way for accessibility. These could—and should–have been crafted as cohesive paragraphs. Here is one instance where a sharp editorial eye was needed:

“To Care for Him who shall have borne the battle”

Civil War medicine is often viewed as primitive. The source of infectious diseases had not yet been discovered and antibiotics did not exist. The truth is thousands of compassionate civilians and military men stepped up to make a terrible situation better. Anesthesia was commonly used and amputations were the best way to save lives. . . .

Here, meaning and clarity fall victim to compression, omission of contextual information and rigid sentence structure. Were amputations the “best way to save lives” from infectious diseases because “antibiotics did not exist?” Alternative phrasing such as, “Anesthesia was commonly used to provide relief, while amputation of shattered limbs saved thousands of lives,” might have resolved the mystery.

Interpretive Issues

But these minor defects in execution are not the primary concern: larger and more substantial issues color and distort Divided Voices. The first of these is the exaggeration of Marylanders’ role in Confederate service. The main text panel introducing the area devoted to battlefield combat baldly states that “Maryland sent 20,000 young men south and 60,000 more to Union regiments,” clearly signaling that three Marylanders served on the Union side for every man who served with the Confederacy. Although recent scholarship puts estimates of Maryland enlistments on both sides at a much lower level, they do agree that the ratio of Union to Confederate enlistments was three-to-one. In short, among Maryland men who served, a preponderance supported the Union cause, not the cause of secession and slavery.

However, the composition of exhibition elements would suggest exactly the opposite. Among white soldiers from Maryland profiled in the array of brief biographies, only one was a Union soldier, while seven are Maryland men who fought for the Confederacy, an imbalance only slightly offset by profiles of three African American soldiers in Union service. Similarly, Confederate sympathizers who are profiled outnumber those who were Union sympathizers.

Haversacks, tinware, and other ordinary objects of everyday life in the army. Fig#10. below.

The disparity is even more pronounced in terms of visitors’ experience of the exhibition and understanding of the story in the objects selected for display. Here large-scale Confederate items overwhelm their Union counterparts. From an experiential point of view, the objects far outweigh the interpretive texts. Any unwary visitor or, for that matter, any visitor who failed to read or remember the opening line of that one text panel would leave Divided Voices believing that Marylanders, certainly white Marylanders, mostly fought on the Rebel side. Southern sentiment was strong in Maryland (which had voted overwhelmingly Democratic in the presidential election of 1860), and especially in Baltimore and Southern Maryland. But it was nonetheless outweighed by sympathy, support, and service for the Union, among both white and black Marylanders. [FIGURE 10 HERE]

How did this misleading interpretation come about? For one thing, Confederate veterans and sympathizers were assiduous in preserving the memory of “the Lost Cause.” In their version of history, heroic Southerners led by dashing cavaliers and doughty sea dogs were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and industrial strength of the North, hell-bent on destroying an idyllic agrarian culture which sought only to maintain its traditional institutions and ancient liberties. Invested in the past, those on the losing side glorified their efforts in an unequal struggle, relegating their Union opponents to roles as ciphers in mass formations led by blood-thirsty mediocrities. This mythic re-telling of “the War between the States”—the name itself a key element of the myth–was embodied and sanctified in monuments, memorials, and a vast literature that far outweighed those of the Unionists. The exhibition text is rife with ‘Lost Cause’ language:

“An isolated, rural South was strangled and overwhelmed by an industrial North. Manufacturing and manpower won the war.”

“Maryland raider Harry Gilmore epitomized the danger and romance of . . . hit and run cavalry tactics.”

“The embodiment of the Southern cavalier . ..”

And so on.

More fundamentally, Divided Voices, despite welcome attention to the role of African Americans in the Union forces, has mostly passed over the core issues of slavery and racism. In fairness, two large panels near the exhibition opening do touch briefly on slavery in Maryland and the efforts of Maryland slaves to secure their liberty by service in the Union cause. These, however, are compromised. The concluding sentence of the main text dealing with slavery reads: “Collectively, most slave owners viewed abolitionism and the Republican Party as a [sic] threat to their wealth, culture and political influence.”

This critical interpretive text fails to represent the views of the slaves; instead, the view of slavery presented here is that of the white masters. As if to underscore this problem, the caption of an image on the same panel (in much smaller point size than the main text) reads in part: “Free African Americans and slaves . . . saw the war as an opportunity to strike a blow against the institution of slavery. Resistance increased significantly during the war, and Maryland slaves took advantage of the turmoil by fleeing to the Union Army, to the North, or free black communities in Washington, D.C. and Baltimore.” In 1860, Maryland blacks were not divided on the abolition of slavery, and blacks constituted 100% of those enslaved. Surely their “voices” should be the ones we hear first on the subject, rather than those of the minority of slave owners.

Notwithstanding other texts that evoke black Marylanders’ yearning for freedom—most notably the text panel titled “He Will Fight” and a second panel devoted to an African American celebration of the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment (1870)—there is a conspicuous silence in this exhibition on what would seem to be an important theme: the impact of the war on black Marylanders, slave and free alike. The emancipation of Maryland slaves through ratification of a state constitutional amendment in November 1864, the first such emancipation among the loyal, slave-owning Border States and arguably the most consequential “impact” of the Civil War on the State, is noted flatly in a single sentence at the end of the text panel “He Will Fight’: “Maryland abolished slavery in November 1864.” (A second, elliptical reference to the abolition of slavery in Maryland is found in the panel on the Fifteenth Amendment—“Six years after Maryland freed its slaves . . .”)

It might be argued that the long and complicated story of Maryland emancipation is unsuited to interpretation in an exhibition and that the exhibition focuses primarily on the military conflict and its repercussions, but the primal issue of slavery is invoked from the exhibition’s opening panel (and in the first sentences of the Society’s exhibition publicity). And rightly so, since the abolition of slavery in Maryland is as direct a consequence of the Civil War as the casualties of its many battles.

Of course, the struggle for emancipation preceded the war. But over the four years of brutal, bloody war, the conviction grew that Union victory must bring with it the death of slavery. This feeling established itself not only in President Lincoln, his cabinet, and Congressional leaders, but also among the hearts and minds of the rank-and-file of the Union army. The ratification of the constitutional amendment emancipating Maryland’s slaves in November 1864 was due to the votes cast by the state’s white Union soldiers. In his magisterial study, The Battle Cry of Freedom, James M. McPherson notes that “the men in blue also decided the outcome in several congressional districts, and the votes of Maryland soldiers for a state constitutional amendment abolishing slavery more than offset the slight majority of the home vote against it.” So, if the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment in 1870 is worthy of note, how much more so the destruction of Maryland slavery. Yet the voices of slaves and freedmen on this decisive issue are muted.

The silence echoes, most obviously because of the Maryland Historical Society’s sponsorship of Fred Wilson’s landmark exhibition, Mining the Museum, in 1993. As Judith E. Stein reflects in Sins of Omission (Art in America, October 1993), Mining the Museum used the Society’s artifacts “to raise our awareness of institutionalized racism, making visible the subtle and insidious ways these attitudes affect the decisions museums make about what to collect and how to display it.” But Wilson had another, more positive point to make as well: African American history is American history (and all Americans should know and understand that history).

After nearly two decades of progress in acknowledging the centrality of the African American experience in Maryland, the Society seems to have taken a pause in Divided Voices, and this has skewed its curatorial emphasis and the interpretive focus of the exhibition. If the Society had, perfectly legitimately, chosen to restrict its narrative to the experiences of those who fought and died, I would raise no objection. But instead, the Society has chosen to open up the subject—the Civil War in Maryland–and then not followed through as effectively as it could.

Neither the 1864 Maryland Constitution nor the Civil War itself brought an end to racism. Neither transformed the ingrained attitudes of the white majority or the awareness of those attitudes by the black minority. Decades of segregation, discrimination, and injustice followed the war and remain among the state’s legacies of slavery and racism. But the Civil War did have a profound and lasting impact in Maryland: it freed nearly 90,000 enslaved people and put an end to efforts to legally re-enslave 90,000 free blacks.

In Adam Goodheart’s new book, 1861. The Civil War Awakening, he quotes a July 1861 colloquy between the Unionist author Nathaniel Parker Willis and an elderly black slave at Arlington House, newly evacuated by Robert E. Lee and his family and now occupied by Federal troops.

Willis: “Well, uncle, what do you think of the war?”

Slave: “Well, massa, it’s all about things we’ve been so long a putting up with.”

One hundred and fifty years of “putting up” still stand between us and the Civil War, but we can see that, here in Maryland, the Civil War was a milestone on the long, challenging road to a more just and equal society. With some modest revisions, Divided Voices can provide an even more insightful, meaningful narrative for contemporary visitors, white and black alike, for the duration of the Sesquicentennial.

By Avi Y. Decter, Contributing Writer

Avi Decter is executive director of the Jewish Museum of Maryland, in Baltimore

Exhibit now at the Maryland Historical Society www.mdhs.org

April 2011 through Spring 2015 (with annual updates)

Main Gallery: 4,000 s.f.; Introduction Area: 950 s.f.

Curators: Burton Kumerow, Alexandra Deutsch, Heather Haggstrom, and Iris America Bierlein

Exhibition Design: Charles Mack Design

Graphic Design: PJ Bogert Graphic Design

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Figure Notes:

 Figure 1. A display of photography equipment and photographic practice, c. 1860-65, introduces visitors to the first war in which photojournalism played a major role—bringing in the carnage of battle home to the public.

 Figure 2. Floor Plan. As this floor plan indicates, Divided Voices is laid out in a linear fashion with a room-size glass case at its center. Visitors follow a counter-clockwise path through the narrative, concluding their journey back at the entrance to the exhibition gallery.

 Figure 3.Lincoln won less than 3% of theMaryland vote in the 1860 presidential elections.Lincoln’s victory precipitated a secession movement across the Lower South, raising fears for “the safety of theUnion” among border state residents.

 Figure 4. The Pratt Street Riot in April 1861, in which Southern sympathizers attacked troops traveling to Washington in support of the Lincoln administration, led to the imposition of martial law in Baltimore for nearly four years.

Figure 5. The exotic Zouave jackets worn by several regiments of Union soldiers (right) had come into women’s fashion even before the war began as seen in the woman’s dress with Zouave jacket to the left.  A remarkable display of Civil War-era costume is presented in this central glass case. The mannequin on the left reveals the underpinnings of fashionable costume, including the use of “pockets” that were worn under the wearer’s skirt

 Figure 6. One of the most compelling objects on view is this tattered battle flag of the 4^th Regiment of U.S. Colored Troops, juxtaposed with a portrait of Medal of Honor winner Christian Fleetwood.

 Figure 7. The “vacant chair” became an abiding symbol of loss. BothUnion and Confederate veterans set out empty chairs at gatherings in remembrance of lost comrades.

 Figure 8. A large, bucolic oil painting of Harper’s Ferry by Augustus C. Weidenbach (1863) dominates the opening of Divided Voices. The painting serves as backdrop for weapons and other memorabilia associated with John Brown’s polarizing raid.

 Figure 9. The interplay of quotes, photomurals, objects, and casework in Divided Voices create a powerful effect. Note the canvas litter used to carry the wounded from the field of battle.

 Figure 10. The accoutrements of everyday life in the army are effectively set off against the photo mural in the background. Note the haversacks at center right and a bottle of walnut catsup at the far left.

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(Left) [IMAGE 1] Godfried Schalcken, Young Girl Eating Sweets (detail), 1680-85, oil/panel, 73 x 61″.  Collection Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo. Image courtesy Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, Massachusetts fine arts magazine 

Image 2: Collectors, Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo. photo: Walter Silver

Given their nationalities, it may seem obvious that they would collect Dutch and Flemish art, but it was carriages, sporting prints and a farmhouse that they owned in New Hampshire which launched their adventure as collectors. Only when Peter Sutton, then curator of European Painting at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, suggested they start collecting paintings representing the Netherlands’ Golden Age did they turn to Old Masters. 

In creating a collection composed of exemplary work of the most significant Dutch and Flemish artists of the seventeenth century, the van Otterloos have been guided by Dr. Simon H. Levie, former director of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, and Dr. Frederik J. Duparc, former director of the Mauritshuis in The Hague. The works span the genres that characterize Golden Age painting: church interiors and townscapes, portraits, scenes of everyday life (“genre” painting), seascapes and landscapes, and still lifes. 

Today the van Otterloos’s collection totals 68 paintings, as well as a smaller number of additional pieces representing the decorative arts. Part of the collection has already been exhibited at the Mauritshuis. “In the Netherlands, people are familiar with Dutch painting as part of their heritage,” Mrs. van Otterloo noted, four days before the exhibition opened at Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, earlier in 2011. “We’re really excited and eager to know what people will think.” When asked what she would like visitors to be aware of, she replied, “The beauty and quality of the works. It’s a wonderful survey of Dutch painting.” 

Martin Luther attaches his 95 Theses (1517). Image not part of PEM exhibition

The exhibition was organized by The Peabody Essex in conjunction with the Mauritshuis. Dr. Frederik J. Duparc is the guest curator, and Karina Corrigan, the H. A. Crosby Forbes Curator of Asian Export Art at Peabody Essex, is the coordinating curator. 

In 1555, only 38 years after Martin Luther’s 95 Theses, nailed to the door of the church in Wittenburg, Germany (left), sparked the Protestant Revolution, the seventeen provinces of the Low Countries came under the control of Philip II of Spain. In 1579, the seven northern provinces, which were largely Protestant, united in the Union of Utrecht; two years later, they declared their independence from Spain. For the new United Provinces, the following century would be marked by enormous economic growth fuelled by trade, and by the unprecedented prosperity and cultural flowering known as the Dutch Golden Age. 

Image 3. Note: Reference all image detail below. Click here to enlarge

Wealthy merchants, bankers and other prosperous citizens replaced monarchs and the aristocracy as patrons and collectors of art. This led to the rise of an open art market. Paintings tended to be fairly small in size and scale, as they were purchased not for churches or palaces, but for private homes. Subject matter was secular, spanning a range of genres, including portraits, facial studies, townscapes, church interiors, scenes of daily life, home interiors, landscapes and seascapes, and still-lifes. Modesty was a virtue, though it did not preclude national pride. 

The highly detailed, lifelike rendering characteristic of Dutch painting of the era resulted in works that appeared highly realistic; but it was a deceptive realism, tempered with imagination and altered by the artist to achieve a particular end. 

Golden: Dutch and Flemish Masterworks from the Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection opens with an introduction to the Golden Age. A photograph of the van Otterloos greets visitors as they enter the first gallery. A large map shows the Netherlands in the seventeenth century. Three landscapes – February by Jacob Grimmer, a miniature painted on copper by Brussels-born Jan Brueghel the Elder and entitled, Village Scene with a Canal, and Hendrick Avercamp’s larger Winter Landscape near a Village [IMAGE 3] provide visitors with views based on areas indicated on the map. 

Image 4

The low two-drawer oak and ebony ribbank cupboard, ornamented with geometric and figurative carving, is characteristic of the Southern Netherlands and is the only Flemish cupboard in the exhibition. In the seventeenth century, houses had few pieces of furniture, which took up valuable space and was expensive. Elaborately carved furniture was a status symbol. A four-drawer cupboard, or beeldenkast, of oak and ebony seen later in the exhibition, demonstrates a design associated with the Northern Netherlands, particularly Amsterdam [IMAGE 4 ]. 

Image 5

Jan van der Heyden’s View of the Westerkerk, Amsterdam [IMAGE 5, and link to video clip at end of article] in the second gallery exemplifies the genre known as townscapes. In contrast to many of his other paintings, Van der Heyden’s rendering of the church, a well-known symbol of Amsterdam, is unusually faithful to the actual structure. The church was completed in 1631 and was the largest Protestant church in the world until the construction of Christopher Wren’s St Paul’s Cathedral in London. It is still the largest Protestant church in the Netherlands and is the burial place of Rembrandt. Anne Frank mentioned the church’s set of bells (carillon) in her diary; she could not help hearing them, for the Westerkerk is located not far from the building in which she and her family hid during World War II. An interactive in the PEM exhibition gallery enables visitors to listen to the sound of those bells. 

Church interiors were also popular subjects. Such views were simultaneously scenes of everyday life in a religious setting. In the absence of crucifixes and other imagery that Dutch Protestants renounced—because they associated them with Roman Catholicism—the interior architecture of the church assumed a new importance. The Van Otterloo collection includes three examples, one by each of the three seventeenth-century masters of the genre: Gerard Houckgeest, Pieter Saenredam, and Emanuel de Witte. 

In The Nieuwe Kerk in Delft with the Tomb of William of Orange, by Gerard Houckgeest, monumental sun-dappled columns frame the tomb of the great hero of the Dutch revolt against Spain. Darker tones prevail in Emanuel de Witte’s Interior of the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam [IMAGE 6]. This latter work is one of the relatively few paintings in the exhibition executed on canvas, rather than on panel. 

Image 6

The introduction of private citizens as patrons and collectors of art contributed to the demand for portraits, a genre that ranked only below history painting in the traditional hierarchy of subject matter. Rembrandt van Rijn, the most famous portraitist of the Golden Age, arrived in Amsterdam at the age of 26 from his hometown of Leiden and in just a year was known as the finest portrait painter in the city. 

The Portrait of Aeltje Uylenburgh [IMAGE 7 ], which Rembrandt painted not long after his arrival in Amsterdam, was purchased by the van Otterloos in 2005. Rembrandt knew the sitter; he was living in her cousin’s house, and two years later, another one of her cousins would become his wife. 

Image 7

The other great portraitist of the Dutch Golden Age, Frans Hals, is represented in the van Otterloo collection by his Portrait of a Preacher. Flemish by birth, Hals was just a child when he moved with his family to Haarlem. While he is particularly well known for his group portraits of civic guards of Haarlem, he also painted a smaller number of individual portraits as well as genre scenes. 

It is difficult to imagine the Dutch Golden Age without genre painting, or scenes of daily life. Barber-Surgeon Tending a Peasant’s Foot by Isaack Koedijck [IMAGE 8] , shows a barber-surgeon, a legitimate medical practitioner in seventeenth-century Northern Netherlands, treating a patient. Koedijck and his wife spent most of the 1650s in Asia, where he was in the service of the Dutch East India Company, or VOC (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie). The VOC, which was founded in 1602, possessed a monopoly on Dutch trading activities in Asia and played a major role in the overseas trade of the Dutch Republic. 

The placement of the open window and hanging birdcage recall the composition of The Arnolfini Portrait (also referred to as The Arnolfini Wedding) by the early fifteenth-century Flemish painter Jan van Eyck. The open book on the table in the background has only recently been identified, for Koedijck did not show the title page. An actual copy of the book may be seen in the exhibition in a display case next to the painting, while on a nearby wall, an interactive–one of three in the exhibition–invites visitors to further explore Koedijk’s painting. 

Image 8

Additional examples of genre scenes are exhibited in the fifth gallery. In Sleeping Man Having His Pockets Picked [IMAGE 9] by Nicolaes Maes, the pickpocket openly acknowledges the presence of the viewer, whom she invites to keep her secret as she puts a finger to her lips. Maes, who was a student of Rembrandt, painted genre scenes for not quite five years before beginning a long career as a successful portraitist; such scenes are therefore relatively rare. 

In the same gallery are examples of another genre of Golden Age painting associated specifically with the Dutch: the tronie, or facial study. Though related to portraiture, the tronie is not to be confused with it; a tronie is not intended to be a likeness of a specific person; the sitter, who may well be a model, is not expected to be identified. The van Otterloo collection includes three such works, exhibited side-by-side: Jacob Backer’s Young Woman Holding a Fan, Salomon de Bray’s Study of a Young Woman in Profile, and Jan Lievens’ Young Girl in Profile [IMAGE 10] . 

Image 9

While most of the art of the Dutch Golden Age drew its inspiration from contemporary life, classical antiquity also provided themes for artists, thanks in part to the availability of translations of classical writings and a high level of literacy. Twenty-year-old Aelbert Cuyp marries a classical subject to the landscape genre in Orpheus Charming the Animals [IMAGE 11 ]. Enticed by his music, an assembly of animals and surrounding trees listens to the Greek god Orpheus, whose mother, Calliope, was the muse of epic poetry. The presence of an elephant, an ostrich, two tigers and a camel – animals that would have been considered exotic – reminds us that the seventeenth century also saw the rise of cabinets de curiosités, or curiosity cabinets, which housed collections of objects ranging from natural history to antiquities, and which served as forerunners to museums. 

Contrasting with the classical setting of Orpheus Charming the Animals is Gabriël Metsu’s Old Woman Eating Porridge, a theme that was pioneered some twenty years earlier by another artist represented in the van Otterloo collection, Gerrit Dou. An elderly woman eats a bowl of porridge while her cat keeps her company at her feet. The simple interior speaks of virtue and modesty, while the fur of the cat is rendered with the same careful attention to texture that characterizes so much of Dutch Golden Age painting. 

Image 10

The small oak table, displayed near the painting, is also part of the van Otterloo collection, giving visitors to the exhibition an opportunity to see an actual table of the type depicted in Metsu’s painting. 

Landcapes and seascapes constitute a significant part of the van Otterloo collection, and are displayed in the seventh gallery. The foremost of all Dutch landscape painters, Haarlem-born Jacob van Ruisdael, is represented by three paintings: Wooded River Landscape, View of Haarlem [IMAGE 12] and Winter Landscape with Windmills. 

Seascapes reflect the importance of water in Dutch life, for water, which was ever a threat to the low-lying land, also led the nation to international power and wealth. Not surprisingly, the seventeenth century was a vital era for Dutch marine painting. Artists rendered details with the realism for which the period is renowned, even while incorporating imaginary and symbolic elements. Leiden-born Willem van de Velde the Younger is considered the most important seventeenth-century painter of the genre. His ability to convey atmospheric effects, as evidenced in works such as Fishing Boats by the Shore in a Calm, reminds us of the influence that the plein air seascapes of such later Dutch artists as Johan Barthold Jongkind exerted on the work of the young Claude Monet. 

Image 11

Also on display in this gallery is the painting that launched the van Otterloos’ Dutch and Flemish collection: Jan van Goyen’s River Landscape with Peasants in a Ferryboat. 

An exception to the smaller size and low horizons of most Dutch landscapes and seascapes is Jan Both’s Italianate Landscape with Travelers on a Path. This large fantasy landscape has never hung in the van Otterloos’ home, owing to its size; it shows the influence of Both’s visit to Italy, as well as his fondness for the light-infused work of French artist Claude Lorrain, a Both contemporary. 

Image 12

The last gallery of the exhibition is devoted to still-lifes. In contrast to the distant views and outdoor settings of landscapes and seascapes, the still-lifes present intimate, close-up views, most often of flower arrangements or food. Still Life with Flowers [IMAGE 13] by Rachel Ruysch—one of the very few women artists who achieved renown during the Golden Age—is one of several floral still-lifes in the collection. Like landscapes, still-lifes ranked lower in the hierarchy of subject matter than did portraiture and genre painting, but nevertheless enjoyed great popularity. Artists blurred the line between reality and fiction to produce aesthetically pleasing results, and thus did not hesitate to combine flowers of different seasons, no matter how realistically they might render them, in a single bouquet. 

A live, albeit sleeping, animal enters a still life in Gerrit Dou’s Sleeping Dog [IMAGE 14, below], showing a small dog curled up by an earthenware pot and a bundle of firewood. Dou, who studied under Rembrandt and achieved considerable success in his own lifetime, also painted animals and scenes of daily life. 

Image 13

Two pieces of blue-and-white kraak porcelain in Breakfast Still Life with a Ham and a Basket of Cheese by Flemish artist Pieter Claesz. remind us of the enormous importance of trade in the Dutch Golden Age. Kraak ware, produced in China for export between the late sixteenth and early decades of the seventeenth century, arrived in the Netherlands on the ships of the VOC (Dutch East India Company). Next to the painting, a small linen press made of oak, ebonized fruitwood and beech shows visitors how the Dutch expertly pressed the table-cloths and napkins that feature in Claesz.’s and a number of other Dutch works. 

The organization of the exhibition by specific genre such as portraits, still-lifes and seascapes, coupled with lively and informative wall texts, makes the exhibit accessible to visitors whatever their prior knowledge of Dutch art. The inclusion of furniture and other objects helps viewers better understand the lifestyle of the individuals and spaces portrayed in the paintings, while interactives turn them into active participants, providing opportunities to experience the collection by hearing and touch as well as by sight. The interactives also permit the inclusion of information, some of it in game format, which might otherwise have been omitted, and will help to draw in younger visitors. The overall accessibility of Golden mirrors the friendliness of the collectors themselves, both in their openness and enthusiasm in discussing their collection and their hopes for the exhibition with this writer and others, and in the remarkable generosity they have shown in their lending policy. This is an exhibition not to be missed! 

By Susan E. Schopp, Contributing Writer 

On Display at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, now through February 12, 2012 

Visit the Peabody Essex Museum site; watch and hear Bach’s Tocata in D Minor on the Westerkerk carillon at: http://www.youtube.com/user/peabodyessexmuseum#g/c/A0433BEDF9C81A8A  

 An award-winning, full-color 404-page catalogue, “Golden: Dutch and Flemish Masterworks from the Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection” accompanies the exhibition and is available through the museum Web site at: www.mfah.org  [IMAGE 14, left]. 

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Susan E. Schopp is an independent scholar specializing in the shipping of the Canton trade, c. 1700-1842. She holds a Diplôme d’études supérieures in museum studies and a Diplôme de recherche in East Asian art history from the Ecole du Louvre in Paris. Her current research focuses on chop boats. In her spare time she is a member of the volunteer crew of the full-size, fully operational reproduction East India ship, Friendship of Salem. 

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Image References: 

² Eijk and Rose-Marie van Otterloo in their home in Massachusetts. Photo: Walter Silver. Image courtesy Peabody Essex Museum. 

³ Hendrick Avercamp, Winter Landscape near a Village, c. 1610-15. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 

⁴ Cupboard (Beeldenkast), 1620-40. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Photo: Walter Silver. Image courtesy Peabody Essex Museum. 

⁵ Jan van der Heyden, View of the Westerkerk, Amsterdam, c. 1667-70. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. 

⁶ Emanuel de Witte, Interior of the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam, c. 1660-65. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Museum of Fine  Arts, Boston. 

⁷ Rembrandt van Rijn, Portrait of Aeltje Uylenburgh, 1632. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 

⁸ Isaack Koedijck, Barber-Surgeon Tending a Peasant’s Foot, c. 1649-50. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Peabody Essex Museum.  

⁹ Nicolaes Maes, Sleeping Man Having His Pockets Picked, c. 1655. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. 

¹⁰ Jan Lievens, Young Girl in Profile, c. 1631-32. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. 

¹¹ Aelbert Cuyp, Orpheus Charming the Animals, c. 1640. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. 

 ¹² Jacob van Ruisdael, View of Haarlem, c. 1670-75. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. 

 ¹³ Rachel Ruysch, Still Life with Flowers, 1709. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. 

 ¹⁴ Gerrit Dou, Sleeping Dog, 1650. The Rose-Marie and Eijk van Otterloo Collection. Image courtesy Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Alfred Wertheimer, Going Home (1956) Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, Wash. D.C.

From December 24th to March 8th, 2012, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts will host Elvis at 21: Photographs by Alfred Wertheimer, a collaborative exhibition developed by the National Portrait Gallery, the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service, and Govinda Gallery, and made possible through the support of the History channel. The idea of images of a pop culture icon displayed in such hallowed halls may raise the eyebrows of those whose sense of the Portrait Gallery is of a museum dedicated to the “art of portraiture,” or as an august arena for the presentation of such notable figures as the presidents. But–just as he did when he electrified the nation in 1956—Elvis at 21 will inevitably alter the beat of everyday Gallery life.

In photographs taken by Alfred Wertheimer in 1956, Elvis at 21 documents the explosive rise of a 21-year-old singer named Elvis Presley. A young freelance photographer, Wertheimer was hired to take publicity shots of Presley, but then “tagged along” and was able to capture Elvis’s transit to superstardom. For this exhibition, Wertheimer took his negatives to pioneer printmaker David Adamson, and the resulting 56 large format pigment prints provide a stunning storyboard of fame. fine arts magazine

Alfred Wertheimer, Starburst (1956) Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, Wash. D.C.

The collection of Elvis images originally began its national tour at Washington’s National Portrait Gallery. Elvis at the National Portrait Gallery, you might ask?! Indeed! The Gallery is primarily a museum devoted to the personality of history, with a focus on those “who have had a significant impact on American life and culture” through “the art of portraiture.” Amidst this bipolar identity, the Gallery has managed to establish a reputable pop culture repertory with such major exhibitions as Champions of American Sport (1981), On the Air: Pioneers of American Broadcasting (1987), and Red, Hot & Blue: A Smithsonian Salute to the American Musical (1996). Located in the heart of the sports and entertainment district of the nation’s capital, the Gallery is working to spotlight its sports and entertainment collections: the recent Americans Now exhibition of contemporary popular culture stars has proved to be a magnet for visitors.

Alfred Wertheimer, Jump (1956) Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, Wash. D.C.

Focusing on a pop culture icon also allows us to consider the idea of ‘portrait’ from a different perspective—that of “the image.” Elvis’s image fits well with the postwar intellectual framework established by Marshall McLuhan, in which ‘the image’ becomes a cultural medium with a specifically-crafted “message.” As these photographs of Elvis illustrate, the idea of ‘the image’ was a defining element in the rise of media-generated celebrity culture. In the late nineteenth century, the graphic revolution created a technology able to disseminate stories and illustrations of famous people in an ever-widening arc. The emergence of such mass media as recordings, motion pictures, magazines, radio, and ultimately television vastly expanded the audience for fame and celebrity. With the rise of modern celebrity, the selection of ‘the famous’ became an election, only instead of a ballot box there was a box office, a corner newsstand, a recording industry, and a pop culture media that made celebrities part of everyday life.

In the mid-1950s, television was the new celebrity-generating medium, and Elvis—through several live performances in 1956 that launched him to stardom—broadcast a message of cultural transformation. The photographs in Elvis at 21 depict an image of youth and newness, but also document the face of a personality who jangled the calm of ‘peace and prosperity. To a culture of conformity, conspicuous consumption, and cars with fins, Elvis represented an intrusion as shocking as Sputnik would be a year later: he energized the emerging youth culture and helped create a new consumer market fueled by radio, recordings, and movies. His popularity also helped catalyze a revolution in the entertainment industry, paving the way for rhythm and blues, gospel, and rock into mainstream culture.

Alfred Wertheimer, Entering the Warwick (1956) Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, Wash. D.C.

When the keepers-of-tradition began to understand the message of the Elvis image, red flags of warning sprouted across the landscape. Elvis was lumped with such other threatening new pop culture figures as James Dean—clearly, the image of leather-and-denim-clad ‘juvenile delinquents’ clashed harshly with the gray-flannel suit generation. One cultural steward, popular television host Steve Allen, invited Elvis to appear on his variety show, but forced him to wear white-tie-and-tails and sing “Hound Dog” with…a hound dog.

Elvis’s rise to stardom happened in a single year—from January 1956 to January 1957—and reflected television’s emergence as a cultural denominator. These were years of enormous social change, a feeling well-captured by the photographs of Elvis’s 27-hour train ride from New York to Memphis. These images evoke a different America altogether in a journey that rolled through cities, small towns, and farmlands with ‘all deliberate speed.’ Elvis is shown still remarkably alone, mixing unnoticed with everyone else on board, family and strangers, black and white.

With a cinematic luminosity, the photographs document a time when Elvis could sit alone at a drugstore lunch counter or wander unnoticed in mid-town Manhattan. But then things change, and he walks through the door to the rest of his life. What is remarkable is that Wertheimer was there. The exhibition’s final image is a brilliant moment of culmination: Elvis is onstage, saturated by a light that Wertheimer describes as a ‘starburst.’ It is an epochal image—the literal flashpoint of fame.

By Amy Henderson, Co-curator, Elvis at 21

Historian, National Portrait Gallery, Washington, D.C.

See more of what Richmond’s VMFA is exhibiting at: www.vmfa.state.va.us

Visit the Smithithsonian National Portrait Gallery at www.npg.si.edu

I step from the cool marble lobby of a mid-town office building into the blazing sunlight of a New York City summer afternoon. Glancing left and right in the glare, I accommodate my eyes and my will to the next event on my schedule. In the distance the heat rises from the streets and sidewalks of 5th Avenue in visible waves. A maze of stoplights and brake lights blink back at me. My next meeting is in Queens, across the East River, in a large warehouse, turned artist’s studio. Today, I had planned to go subterranean, taking the ‘4’ down to Grand Central, then transferring to the ’7’ train to Queens. But, the heat and the extra weight in my backpack of a large book given to me at my last meeting prove too much. I step to the curb and raise my hand in that casual pointing-to-the-sky way that New Yorkers do to hail a cab.

Within seconds, a yellow Checker pulls up, just missing my toes. I open the back door, throw my pack onto the seat and crawl in. I lean forward and give the driver the address of my destination. He presses a button or two on his meter and we are off! artes fine arts magazine

I am separated from the front seat and the driver by the customary plastic divider, with a small rectangular window in the center. The passenger space is festooned with all the information I should ever need to know about rates, liability and precautions…with my safety in mind, of course. The irony of this strikes me as the driver reaches speeds of close to sixty between stops—and in heavy traffic. His favorite toy seems to be his horn and the sides of his vehicle appear to come dangerously close to brushing both pedestrians and other encroaching vehicles off the road as we speed south to the Queensboro Bridge. I sit rod-stiff, gripping my pack and staring at the side of the driver’s head, trying my best to telepathically communicate the message: “Slow down. I want to live!”

“Are you English?” he suddenly says, in fractured English.

“Excuse me, did you ask me a question? I say, having heard the inquiry, but being momentarily disarmed by how this man can manage to initiate a discussion when I believe he should be using all of his mental faculties to win at the game of “Chicken” he is playing with the other cab drivers on Lexington Avenue.

“Are you English?” he repeats

“Uh…no, American. Why do you ask?”

“I think you sound English when you tell me where you are going. I am in America for six months and I try to learn the difference. Where I am from, you are all English.”

I now dare to drop my eyes from the windshield re-enactment of Bullitt and Steve McQueen’s high speed chase through the streets of San Francisco, to glance at the picture and name on the license posted in a frame on the back of the driver’s seat. In his photograph, he is dark skinned, with a shock of disorderly black hair and dark eyes. I catch his first name as Adam…last name unintelligible.

“Are you Israeli? I ask, using all of my deductive skills to decipher the word, a-dam, meaning ‘first man’ in Hebrew and draw an immediate conclusion from this bit of trivia. I am also trying to pigeonhole the possible ethnic origins of this nascent conversationalist, as he grips the steering wheel of our bright-yellow death wagon. To my chagrin, his eyes are now cast in my general direction, as we careen down 59th Street.

“No, I am Palestinian, from West Bank. I live with my brother’s family in Astoria. Big Arab neighborhood there. Why do you think I am a Jew?”

“Because of your name, ‘Adam’. That is a common name for Jewish men,” I say, trying to rescue my erudition and keep from being dumped into the East River, as we now cross the bridge and I glance through the back window at the Manhattan skyline falling away—hopefully not, in my case, for the last time.

“It is Arab name, too. We both have Adam in our religion. Do you like politics?” he asks, as though trying to spare me the embarrassment I already felt. “I am glad Bush is gone,” he adds, not waiting for an answer to his question. “He hated Palestinians and Sadat. He made nice to Sadat in front of cameras, but he was really a Jew lover.”

“I didn’t like Bush either,” I say, trying to win this man’s loyalty back and talk my way out of a possible hostage-for-cash situation, as I imagine myself missing the upcoming meeting and find myself, instead, bound and gagged in some darkened back room in his brother’s house. “But I think everyone wants peace in the Middle East. It’s just very hard to figure out how to do it so both sides get what they want.”

“We stand a better chance with Obama,” Adam says, “He’s Arab, too, so he is on our side.”

“Adam,” I say, reflexively leaning forward to engage him, knowing full well that I might be throwing my tenuous grasp on my own safety out the window, “Obama is an American. That has been proven time and time again. His interests are exactly the same as yours and mine. He just wants this big problem to be fixed.” I hesitate for a moment then shift the focus away from this no-win situation. “You’ve been here for six months. Did you come to be with your family?”

“I stay with my brother while I am here for two years to make money. My wife and kids are back home. My son is smart and he wants to go to American college to be engineer. The only way we can do that if I work here to send money home. Then, my son comes to U.S. for school. My son is very smart…not like his father.”

“I think you’re smart for having a plan and carrying it out. You must miss your family,” I say, relaxing a bit now that we have diffused the situation and found some common ground. “And you get to see your brother a lot,” I add.

The cab moves out of heavy stop-and-go traffic on the bridge and into the borough of Queens. A jumble of small retail shops, warehouses and poorly-parked trucks covered with graffiti line the narrow side streets that Adam takes, in a zigzag route to my destination. He drives with the confidence of someone who is in familiar territory and I ask him if his family lives nearby.

“Yes, just a few blocks for here, he replies. Then he adds, almost as a random afterthought, “Do you know why the Jews don’t eat pork?”

“Why? “I ask, watching the meter tick off the dollars and wondering if I won’t have to pay if I suddenly disappear down a dark alley and into the back of a waiting van, the cold steel floor against my cheek as I am rushed out of the city to an unceremonious encounter with a New Jersey backwater landfill.

“Because,” Adam carefully explains, “when God made the world, he put lots of animals here, including pigs. The pigs grew so fast that there were too many of them. So when God decided to add people, he turned some of the pigs into Jews. That is why Jews don’t eat pork. They would be eating their relatives.”

I sit dumbfounded by this logic, my mouth agape in disbelief. I weigh the odds of my safe arrival at my destination against the need to speak out once more against this astounding explanation. I, of course, cast safety to the wind and respond, “Adam, that is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard! You brag about your intelligent son and how you want him to come to school in the U.S. Does he believe this, too? Did you teach him this nonsense?”

“All Arabs believe this. The kids have their own ideas, but my generation has many stories about why the Jews are the way they are.”

“And you think there can be peace in Palestine if people keep thinking like this?” I ask.

“The Koran teaches these things and it is not our place to question it. God will decide who will win.”

“Adam, God has nothing to do with this. It’s about people like Obama, Netanyahu and the Palestinian Authority who will solve this problem. Hamas needs to stop shooting mortars into Israel and Israel should stop expanding settlements on the West Bank for any of this to work out. But nothing positive can ever happen if you keep talking this nonsense about the Jews and pigs!

I am angry now and disbelieving that I am having a heated debate with a cab driver about an issue that I had never given much thought to. I am leaning forward, close to the tiny window separating us, eager to engage the discussion. Adam has now turned in his seat and is smiling back at me. “We’re here,” he says.

I look around in disbelief. The yellow death mobile is parked in front of a towering warehouse on a deeply-shadowed side street, far from the hustle of Queens’ main thoroughfares. It appears, after all, that I might live to tell the tale.

“Thank you,” I say, “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“In our country we talk like this all the time,” Adam says. “It is good to have these debates. I like that you say what you feel.”

I open the door, grateful to have solid ground under my feet. I reach for my pack and pay my fare through the open side window of the cab. As I turn to go, surveying my isolated surroundings, I turn back to the cab as Adam is making a note on a clip board propped against the steering wheel. “Adam, my meeting will take about an hour. Do you think you could work the streets of Queens for a while and pick me up here for the ride back to Grand Central?”

Adam reaches to his dashboard for a business card and scribbles his cell phone number on the back. “Call me five minutes before you are ready to leave and I will be here for you.”

Later, when I emerge from my meeting, having followed his instructions, the shiny yellow cab sits idling, a sunny beacon in the dull gray surrounding of this warehouse district. Adam is behind the wheel and has someone else with him in the front seat (takes two to drag a body, I briefly consider). I open the back door to toss my back pack in, only to find a flat white object, about the size of a shirt box, sitting in my place on the seat. Cautiously, I move it aside, listening for a tell-tale tick-tock-tick-tock and climb in.

Adam turns to me and says, “This is my nephew, Shamir. He is my brother’s son and he goes to school here in Queens. I wanted him to meet you.”

I extend my reach through the small window to introduce myself. A broad-faced boy, with apple-red cheeks and widely-set, black eyes, Shamir shakes my hand and offers me a demurring smile, eyes slightly downcast. As we speak, the cab slowly pulls away.

“Shamir is going to go to college too,” Adam says as he guides the cab, more cautiously this time, toward Queens Boulevard. “I went to the house to get him because I want him to meet a smart American man and to know that he could be that also.” He looks at Shamir for signs of recognition for the importance of this message. Shamir now trains his dark eyes on me, but says nothing.

“Thank you, Adam,” I say. “I take that as a good sign,” hinting at our previous debate.

“And box in the back seat…that is for you.”

I reach for the small box and am surprised by its heft. Given its size, I can’t imagine what might be inside that could weigh this much and still not be life-threatening. I carefully open the top to discover an assortment of rich, honey and almond-soaked deserts, in neat rows. There is a well-ordered line of triangle-cut baklava, honey oozing from the sides; six glazed brown cookies with a toasted almond pressed into the center of each and a third row of flaky-crusted rolled creations, a creamed confection spilling out of each end. All sit on neatly-arrayed, pierced paper doilies, evoking an image of a family dinner table presentation from another, slower-paced world.

“My God, Adam, what is this?” I say in utter disbelief.

It’s from my brother’s bakery, he announces proudly. “I want you to have a taste of my homeland and to remember our talk. Take them with you on the train and share them with your family at home.”

I thank him profusely and we talk eagerly about his son and wife and family back home. We avoid politics. Shamir sits quietly and attentively, not missing a word, appearing proud to be in his uncle’s cab on such an important occasion.

We get to the station in good time, the majority of traffic flowing out of the city as we drive in-town, late in the day. On 42nd Street, Adam pulls over to the curb near the station entrance. I lean forward through the window to shake his hand in thanks and farewell and to say goodbye to Shamir, as well. I gather up my possessions, including my gift, nudge the door open with my foot and turn my attention back to the tiny window.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Adam said. “My compliments.”

The Kolb Brothers Hanging, Grand Canyon (1904). Photo by Ellsworth & Emory Kolb, courtesy Cline Library, N. Arizona Univ.

 The Grand Canyon is wild and unforgiving. But it is also one of the most stunning landscapes on Earth—a place for recreation, reflection and reverence. A beautiful Smithsonian exhibition allows us to marvel at this natural wonder without camping equipment, emergency rations or rappelling ropes.  

Featuring 60 framed photographs, Lasting Light: 125 Years of Grand Canyon Photography is a collaboration between the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service and the Grand Canyon Association. The exhibition is now midway through its national tour, and can currently be seen at the Littleton Historical Museum, Littleton, CO, on view through February 23, 2012. If you can’t swing a visit to see this natural wonder in Colorado, perhaps you can catch a glimpse of the canyon’s beauty when the Smithsonian traveling exhibition comes to a venue near you. The exhibition tour continues through 2013, and the full itinerary can be seen at www.sites.si.edu. ARTES Fine Arts Magazine  

Jack Dykinga, Toroweap Overlook in Morning Light (1987). Photo courtesy J.Dykinga

Grand Canyon National Park, 2,000 square miles of snaking river beds and sheer rock walls, is a world like no other, where vibrant cliffs and flowing water create a striking complement to the Western sky. ‘Lasting Light’ reveals the dedication of those who have attempted to capture the Grand Canyon on film from the earliest days to modern times. Covering nearly 125 years of photographic history, the exhibition includes images of early photographers dangling from cables to get the perfect shot, their cumbersome camera equipment balanced precariously on their shoulders. More modern images are bold and dramatic, revealing the canyon’s capricious weather, its flora and fauna, waterfalls and wading pools, and awe-inspiring cliffs and rock formations. The stunning contemporary images were selected by representatives from Eastman Kodak’s Professional Photography Division and National Geographic.  

‘Lasting Light’ chronicles the development of Grand Canyon photography as we know it today. As revealed in the exhibit, Timothy O’Sullivan, a Civil War photographer and veteran, took the first pictures of the Grand Canyon on behalf of Congress in the early 1870s. It took a minimum of three and half hours to make a single image, and he had to prepare the plates in the field using potentially explosive production materials. The work was dangerous and unpredictable.  

Dugald Bremner, Travertine Terraces, Havasu Creek (1990). Photo courtesy D. Bremner

Three decades later, Ellsworth and Emery Kolb, two steel-working brothers from Pittsburgh, brought the Grand Canyon to the masses in the early 1900s. The brothers became known for their pictures of tourists on mule rides, and later made history in 1912 as the first Colorado River travelers to film their adventures with a moving picture camera. As the brothers pointed out, the journey was not always glamorous. One afternoon, Emery reported that the group had “walked 22 miles and climbed over 5000 feet,” each carrying 20 pounds worth of film. Yet “the pleasurable thrills we experienced . . . when we developed our plates more than made up for any discomfort we may have experienced.”  

With evermore remote and unexpected images, the brothers greatly expanded the breadth of Grand Canyon photography. Following in the Kolbs’ footsteps, the 26 contemporary photographers presented in the ‘Lasting Light’ exhibition have also changed the way we see and experience the Grand Canyon.  

“What you do is keep it for your children, your children’s children, and for all who come after you, as one of the great sights which every American should see,” Teddy Roosevelt urged. Roosevelt, ever the naturalist, was just one of the canyon’s devotees. There are millions of others, including the 26 featured photographers of ‘Lasting Light’, who ran the river and climbed the rocks to capture these breathtaking images.  

S & A Partners, Rainbow (1995). Photo courtesy S & A Partners

“The Grand Canyon taught me a way of seeing. How to see light and design,” said featured photographer John Blaustein. Grand Canyon photographer Jack Dykinga notes, “I think I’ve experienced every single mood of the canyon, from sandstorms to ice storms, to waiting out dangerous conditions in a cave. For a photographer, mood is what elicits impact and emotion.” These and other intriguing narratives accompany the spectacular photographs, giving audiences the artists’ personal insight into the power of the Canyon.  

As photographer Stephen Trimble points out in his book, Lasting Light: 125 Years of Grand Canyon Photography, “…as every other photographer who comes to the Grand Canyon, I’ve been humbled by the place and its checklist of challenges: vastness, remoteness, ruggedness- and on the river, the constant danger of water damage to equipment and the sickening sound of sandy grit in lenses and camera bodies.”  

Trimble also notes that the exhibition gathers these stories, the pictures themselves “and the tales behind the photographs, intimate moments from the lives of men and women in love with the crazy notion of bringing home in their pictures the light and space and rocks and river of the Grand Canyon.”  

Travelers who want to see the incredible scenic chasm in person can celebrate the National Parks during fee-free days in August of each year, when visitors aren’t charged an entrance fees to the Grand Canyon. http://www.nps.gov/findapark/feefreeparks.htm.  

Learn more about the Grand Canyon Association, a non-profit membership organization that supports education, scientific research and other programs for the benefit of Grand Canyon National Park and its visitors, at www.grandcanyon.org.  

SITES shares the wealth of Smithsonian collections and research through a wide range of exhibitions about art, science and history with millions of people outside Washington, D.C. For more information on exhibitions and tour schedules, visit www.sites.si.edu.  

by Lindsey Koren, Contributing Writer

Enola Gay, restored & ready for exhibition (2004)

 Editor’s Note: Occasionally, an article published in ARTES evokes a profoundly personal and instructive reply by a reader. On very rare occasions, that response is crafted by a fellow writer and regular contributor to the magazine.  Recently (November, 2011), we ran a feature-length article by curator and consultant, Ken Yellis, as an expanded article originally appearing in Curator Magazine (2009).  Then, as now, he reflects on the social responsibility of collection-based and historical-oriented institutions to accurately represent our cultural and natural history in authentic and illuminating ways—even if it touches the ‘third rail’ of painful or controversial facets of our collective consciousness.  The myths we construct for ourselves—repeated with such frequency that they become our shared reality—are often at odds with the factual record. The nexus of these two world—fact and fable—serves as fertile ground for dialogue, debate, and even open conflict. artes fine arts magazine

Here, Stephen Vincent Kobasa evinces Smithsonian’s recent Enola Gay exhibition, drawing poignant and powerful associations in his own life; as well as on the warp and weft of the social fabric in which we, as a society, often choose to cloak ourselves. The first of these essays was originally published, in a somewhat different form, in the September, 1995 issue of Peacework; the second in the August 1, 2004 issue of The Nuclear Resister. After several years, they appear now on the pages of ARTES,  at the request of this editor. Their relevancy today—with historical facts and partisan emotions being played so fast and loose by our 21st century politicians—is that the first-person, singular narrative must continue to serve our communities as a powerful beacon for our responsibility as museums and institutions-of-learning to find balance in our story-telling. And it also reminds us that, while the historical record is cumulative and often anonymous, it is an unfolding saga that manifests itself each day, often in singular and profoundly personal ways.

A Machine for Lying: Reflections on the Enola Gay

By Stephen Vincent Kobasa, Guest Editorial Contributor

English school children in air raid trenches, 1942.

Sometimes, what we inherit from our parents are lies, not so much malevolent as they are necessary fictions, devices meant to convince us that our lives have found justification in situations where we are deeply afraid that there is no justification available.

In the early summer of 1945, my father was in Germany, having survived the violence of war for over one year. I have heard only fragments of his life during that time – he would recount one or two comic interludes (a tent collapsing under the weight of a heavy rain, leaving him muffled in a muddy ditch) – but only rarely would other moments surface: the soldier crouching alone in the middle of an English field as the rest of his unit drove away in the dark; the line of corpses like a tide mark along a Normandy beach; the accidental slaughter recorded in the British voice over my father’s headphones, “You’ve shot down one of ours.” This is all by way of evidence that I can never know the terror my father learned, somehow, to live with during that time – the ways in which he had to strip his humanity away in order to keep himself from madness. So when the war ended in Europe it must have seemed to him a release beyond measure – while the word which came soon after, that he would be shipping out to the violence which continued in the Pacific – can only have come as a brutal betrayal.

B-29 dropping bombs on Germany, 1944.

Here, then, the histories of my father and the Enola Gay come together, as they do for many other veterans of that time, and for their children. The atomic explosion over Hiroshima became an image of salvation, a terrible parody of the Crucifixion, in which the dying of a city spared their lives. And the Enola Gay, the B-29 aircraft that dropped the bomb, was transformed into the icon of their escape, a machine not only for destruction, but for lying. The skillful technology of the plane and the bomb was read as evidence of their worthiness, and the degree of the slaughter was proportionate to the value of their survival.

But these soldiers, now veterans, were not unaware of the horror the bomb had caused, and as details of the destruction became gradually available, their need for a myth to explain them away became more and more desperate. Atrocities carried out by the Japanese were essential to this rationalizing, although these arguments never acknowledged their assumption that our actions were atrocities as well; and that, for all our assertions of moral superiority, we actually yearned to become our enemy, to become capable of the crimes our enemy committed. We had begun to measure the world in competing levels of terror, and the atomic bomb now meant that our terror could be absolute.*

Horoshima civilians near hypocenter 3 hours after bomb, August 6, 1945.

These are not mere abstractions. They play themselves out in the realities of parents and children of that time – for if my father’s logic prevailed, then my survival, too, was linked to the incineration of vast numbers of human beings and the slow dying of many thousands more.In this version of the story, the Enola Gay carried me to safety. This is the unforgiving inheritance that the children of many World War II veterans (and their spouses – I think of my mother’s role as companion to my father’s need for the lie) find imposed on their experience of the past.

And so, outrage at the original proposal for the 1995 exhibition of the Enola Gay at the Smithsonian must be seen as an act of self-defense on the part of those veterans who are as yet unprepared to let the lie go. In order to preserve a fragile fiction of moral sanity, the veterans who believe what my father does could not tolerate any threat to their attempt at self-justification. And while the much reduced form of that first exhibition of sections of the plane –echoed in the current display of the aircraft intact – does not recount their version of history in any great detail, it still serves their purposes through its silence – the myth remains intact.

Restored cockpit, Enola Gay, 2004.

How would it be possible, then, to confront that myth in the only way that is really essential – to ask what it means to live out lives that we believe depend entirely upon our willingness to undertake, at this very moment, an act of nuclear genocide? Although the machines themselves have evolved into Trident ballistic missile submarines, the lie of the Enola Gay is unchanged, and the exhibition is complicit in it.

Museums like the ones devoted to Air and Space on the Mall in Washington, D.C. – and now in the recently opened Udvar -Hazy facility near Dulles Airport – are, in one sense at least, as great a threat as any of our current working armaments. While obsolete as a weapon, the Enola Gay retains its power to deceive. It has not been so much restored as recreated in the form of a storytelling mechanism which depicts the reality of total war as a glittering prop in a theatre meant to indoctrinate and reassure. When Kathy Boylan, Anne Quintano and I undertook a direct action at the Smithsonian on July 2, 1995, it was not our purpose to damage that object – that thing – known as the Enola Gay (although we were, of course, charged with just such a crime). It would have been pointless to mangle a machine that is not capable of functioning, but even though our gesture was symbolic, it had a real object. We were after the illusion of the Enola Gay with our blood and ashes; not to destroy the “property” which was the government’s controlling notion about its museum artifact, but to expose it as a self-justifying fabrication, and reveal, in some small way, the horrible reality it attempts to suppress.

Crew autographs, photo of Little Boy, Hiroshima Atomic Bomb, 1945.

When, at our trial, the state’s attorney used the word ‘desecrate’ to describe what we had done to the airplane, he dramatically, if inadvertently, confirmed the necessity for our action. In an extraordinary perversion of the sacred, the machine that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima had been transformed into an object of worship, a relic of salvation through terror.

But where was the legal argument that would counter this idolatry? The necessity defense does not apply in the same way that it would for a plowshares action against a Minuteman missile silo – a working machine of the present moment. The Enola Gay is simply a lying story that helps this culture explain away the horrors it has committed in the past, while serving to give license for both our current willingness to commit nuclear genocide and our uncritical acceptance of the the claim that violence is inevitable in all human affairs.

And where in the constrained procedure of the court was there a place for arguments in defense of historical and moral truth? There have been suits successfully brought against revisionist historians who claimed that the Holocaust had not taken place. During our trial, Kathy Boylan described “the blood of the victims of Hiroshima finally reaching up to touch the plane,” but we were granted no legal formula that would acknowledge the voices of the dead as there is in Akira Kurosawa’s film Rashômon, where a ghost testifies at a murder investigation.

Autographed photo, explosion over Hiroshima, 1945

We attempted to put the Smithsonian Institution itself on trial. What obligation does a museum have to present accurate information in its exhibits? Can it be held legally responsible for failing to do that? In the Holocaust Memorial Museum, visitors are confronted with the fatal indifference of the United States’ denial of asylum to Jewish refugees on board the ship St. Louis in 1939, and the later refusal to bomb the railways leading to Auschwitz because, according to a 1944 War Department letter, “it would not warrant the use of our resources.” Do the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki deserve any less of an acknowledgement from our collective conscience?

We argued that our action was meant to repair a display that was in a vandalized condition when we came to it, with its real history mutilated by censorship and fear. If there was any alteration in value to the plane as a result of what we did, it was in restoring its importance as evidence of a crime. Our hope was that the museum leave the plane permanently transformed as a way of acknowledging – finally – its own part in the conspiracy to keep us from the truth…and from repentance. That did not happen. But our action is a part of the Enola Gay’s history now, and brief as it was, the plane can never be quite the same again to those who witnessed its moment of exposure.

What right do we, or any, have to demand that this country confront the horrors of its own creating? What consolation can be offered to veterans like my father in return for abandoning the lie? Our acts of resistance are always, if not only, in the form of stories meant to bring people, not simply to their senses, but to their consciences. To tell the secret of the Enola Gay is to drain that machine of its power over us to accept it as an inevitability in our lives. And when the fatalism of violence is broken – then real salvation is possible.

July, 1995– August, 2004

*This has its obvious contemporary parallels, most succinctly stated by John K. Stoner: “A country which has dangled the sword of nuclear holocaust over the world for half a century and claims that someone else invented terrorism is a country out of touch with reality.”

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More Lies from a Machine: Revisiting the Enola Gay

25 milliseconds after detonation, Trinity test site, Aug. 17, 1945

But I have words

That would be howled out in the desert air,

Where hearing should not latch them.” – Macbeth, IV, iii

Crowded in the vast museum hangar, a war toy now, the Enola Gay is once again intact. The weapon proved restorable, but not the world it destroyed. This is an example of those ironies which, along with violence, are our culture’s most notable products. But what protest is adequate to the outrage?

Eight years ago, when a part of the Enola Gay’s fuselage was first displayed at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, three of us marked it with blood and ashes, part of the history of resistance to the exhibit which has been lost in the same way the plane’s history has been erased by the Smithsonian curators.

For a brief moment, the plane was like one of those legendary sites of murder which ooze the evidence of the crimes committed there.

Cockpit, B-29 "Superfortress" Enola Gay 1945. Photo: David Polermo

Now the plane has been once again washed clean, and the academics have gathered to beg for words, demanding that a more complete history of the plane’s use be included in a display which now praises it as merely a triumph of technology.

But what printed narrative would be complete? What list of the dead? How account for the mutilated conscience of a man like the one for whose mother the plane is named and who, when asked his opinion of the more contemporary demands for the use of nuclear weapons, replied:

“Oh, I wouldn’t hesitate if I had the choice.”

How will the Hibakusha present at the opening of this new museum console the dead with their message that they have seen the distant machine a second time, now displayed as near and wonderful?

A possible answer would be to drag the plane into the desert to be scoured by sand to a metal skeleton, puzzled over by wandering naturalists, and explained by no documents other than the screaming of ghosts.  – S.V.K., January, 2004

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Editor’s Footnote: I think the reason that Stephen’s narrative stikes such a strong emotional cord with me is that the deeply engrainedveil of fear we lived, under as a generation of children during the Cold War `50s and `60s, seemed to know no rational bounds.  Global annihilation was a reality that post-war generations came to accept as a distinct possibility.  The U.S. government was principally responsible for shaping and managing public awareness regarding the devastating consequences of a nuclear stike on any major city in the country.  Mutually Assurred Destruction was the watch-word–an unsettling claim that an ever-expanding atomic arms program was essential to insure that any enemy (assumed to be the Soviets) would be dissuaded from a pre-emptive strike–if they understood an equally-destructive counter-attack as a virtual certainty. 

Pulic education became a priority in the face of this looming Armagedon.  The language adopted to address the threat of nuclear war was carefully crafted to impart information aimed at survival strategies.  Popular notions of ‘Duck and Cover’ were practiced in all public schools and businesses in the 1950s.  The public felt reassured and prepared (my father built a fall-out shelter in our celler), while the reality confronting all those in range of a nuclear attack would have been certian incineration, or lingering death from burns, radiation and the calamatous failure of the societal infrastructure.

What follows is a brief exerpt from a national education program for children in the `50s that exemplifies the “lies” and “myths” alluded to in the esssays above.  I recall that we all allowed ourselves to be convinced that survival was possible after the awful reality of a nearby nucelar explosion; because to consider the alternative was just too unimaginable: http://youtu.be/u1MQ4eyg6U4

“Sane judgment abhors nothing so much as a picture perpetrated with no technical knowledge, although with plenty of care and diligence.” ~Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528)

The sixteenth century marked the dawn of a new age of inquiry, understood by many as the earliest beginnings of the modern age. Religious fervor, superstition and broadly-held, ancient views of the structure of the Universe, planet Earth and the natural order of all life forms were slowly giving way to rational examination and the application of objective observation to everyday phenomena. Scientific study, a novel and often theologically dangerous pursuit, had finally begun to attract the attention of a select few. With the help of the newly-invented moveable print, paper production (a concept brought west from China, via the Silk Road), the application of mass-produced texts and illustrations spawned a widening community of intellectuals; and with them, a body of knowledge that would soon comprise a Northern European Renaissance in the arts and sciences. These analytical trends would form a systematic model for understanding the mysteries of nature that persists to the present day.

Above: Hendrick Goltzius, The Great Hercules, 1589. See End Note #1, below. artes fine arts magazine

Arthur M. Sackler Museum, one of Harvard University Museums, Cambridge, MA

Harvard University’s Arthur M. Sackler Museum has mounted an extraordinary collection of original sixteenth century images, in a show entitled, Prints and the Pursuit of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe. According to Susan Dackerman, Curator of Prints for the museum, artists did not simply work as illustrators in the service of the scientific community. “The prints, drawings, books, maps and scientific instruments of the period suggest that artists played a more active role in facilitating the understanding of new concepts in astronomy, geography, natural history and anatomy, by using their representational skills to give them visual form.” She points out that the production of scientific images and objects was often ”a collaborative enterprise among artists, astronomers, cartographers, botanists, medical practitioners and instrument makers.”

The flexibility and economy of multiple-copy, paper printmaking meant that images could be widely and inexpensively circulated, folded, cut, hand-colored and assembled into various functional objects. Curator Dackerman notes that the exhibition contains several examples of sundials, globes, astrolabes and anatomical models and employs facsimiles of many of these objects “installed throughout the galleries to give visitors a unique, hands-on opportunity to manipulate and appreciate the functions of the early modern devices.”

Categories of knowledge in the 16th century were organized very differently than by contemporary standards. Professional occupations based on empirical investigation were just coming into their own and, as a result, many realms of scientific inquiry which, today, would be worthy of study and life-time devotion, were grouped together. As such, the Sackler exhibition skillfully promotes visitor understanding of these groupings—room-by-room— by carefully combining objects and images into relational paradigms, as if seen through 16th century eyes!

One important category, touching on topics as far reaching as the Solar System and immediate as human physiognomy, was natural philosophy. Not to be viewed in the current sense of the philosopher’s role, they set aside superstition and dogma to examine the physical universe as it was perceptible to the senses—seeking to understand and explain natural events through the application of knowledge and reason. This new field included natural history, which described particular properties of objects in the natural world, and because it included the study of plants, animals and minerals, it was closely associated with the study of medicine. There was also the field of mathematics, which included arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and astrology. Because the mechanical arts (engineering, architecture) were so closely akin to applied mathematics, it also included an examination of issues associated with navigation—a field in need of practical and immediate solutions, given the nascent efforts at global exploration and discovery.

Stradanus (Jan van der Straet), From Nova reperta (New inventions and discoveries of modern times), c. 1599-1603. See End Note #2.

Dackerman observes that, ”during this period, methods of inquiry changed from relying solely on ancient texts to incorporating observation and hands-on experience [with] nature. Cosmographers, medical practitioners, and natural historians, as well as artists, used these new methods in the pursuit of knowledge.” As an example, documentarian Stadamus (Jan van der Straet) produced a catalogue, Nova reperta, illustrating nineteen new inventions, including a plate by an unknown engraver showing the various stages of copper plate engraving and printing. Far from being illustrative, careful observers of the illustration could become acquainted with the printing process for their own purposes Printmaking was truly revolutionary because of the power of mass-produced information to distribute and educate a broader swath of an increasingly literate population.

In fact, Stradanus’s Nova reperta: New inventions and discoveries of modern times (c.1599-1603) features the printing press as the central design element on the title page of his publication. Positioned on either side of the press are two medallions celebrating exploration—the discovery of the Americas on the left, and a star symbolizing the discovery of true north on the right. The exhibition catalogue calls attention to the “string of prints draped above the printing press, emphasizing the mediums capacity for multiples and its key role in disseminating new knowledge.

As noted, paper’s ease of manipulation and the fecundity of prints contributed to their efficacy in producing and spreading knowledge. An excellent example of this in the exhibit is Peter Apian’s The emperor’s astronomy (1540). The lavishly-colored dials, with multiple moving parts, allowed the user to show the movement of the planets, calculate lunar eclipses, and tell time. In this text, which features both northern and southern celestial hemispheres—reflecting an expanded view of a Eurocentric world and the influence of Albrecht Durer’s celestial charts (also appearing in this exhibition)—highlights the ways in which printed material served as a medium of exchange for scientific information among artists and cosmographers in Nuremberg, a dynamic center for the production of scientific instruments and prints in northern Europe, at the time.

Right: Heinrich Vogtherr the elder, Anatomy, or, a Faithful Reproduction of the Body of a Female, Strasbourg: Jacob Fröhlich (1544). (near: viewing flap raised; far: flap lowered). End Note #3.

As a fascinating example of manipulated content (what, today would be called a `pop-up’ book), the exhibit offers Heinrich Vogtherr, the elder’s Anatomy, or, a faithful reproduction of the torso of a female (and male). Both the original and a hands-on facsimile of the illustrations are available for examination by museum-goers. Curatorial notes explain that, ‘Vogtherr exploited the adaptability of paper to illustrate an understanding of human anatomy gained by methods of direct observation, surgery and dissection; the latter being considered controversial in the 16th century.’ Confounding the age-old museum admonition: Do Not Touch, this and other displays produce a curious, secret delight in manipulating the pieces of the illustrated text, in full view of museum personnel; delving deeper into the layers of skin, organs and bone, in much the same way that fascinated Renaissance readers must have done. The power of intellectual discovery remains undiminished as a fact of human nature, then as now.

Unknown woodcutter, Anatomy of the Bones of the Human Body (1493). End Note #4.

In a move from sophisticated to quaintly naïve, is the anonymously-produced woodcut with hand-coloring, Anatomy of the Bones of the Human Body (1493). The earliest known example of a printed representation of the human skeleton; curling banners, inscribed in Latin, float like well-ordered Pringles beside articulated bones. A grinning skull—a Renaissance version of an amiable Freddy Kruger—seems eager to reveal all to his audience of curious viewers, proffering a half-hearted wave from the crest of a grassy, green knoll. A text box tells us that the print was “made in Paris by the very learned man, Master Richard Helian, doctor of arts and medicine.” It also notes that the image was “successfully multiplied through the art of printing.” This version of ‘outsider art’ may be viewed as mildly humorous by today’s standards. But, it would be a mistake to underestimate the significant value of such illustrations as edifying for a 16thcentury population, for whom even the most basic features of the human body would have been shrouded in mystery and meritriciousness. Simplified versions of this very image appeared in a number of subsequent instructional medical treatises.

Andreas Vesalius, Title page, Seven books on the fabric of the human body (1543). End Note #5.

Instructional manuals and guide books (vade mecum) of all kinds were being generated during this period. Publications, like Leonhart Fuchs’s encyclopedia (1542) extolled the virtues of direct observation of plant species for purposes of identification. Another, a how-to manual, entitled Intrument book (1533), by Peter Apian, captures the passion-of-the-day for learning about the natural world and conveys the importance of measurement. Underscoring the use of standardized instruments was key to the creation of a uniform and consistent body of knowledge about natural phenomena, making it available to a broader audience. Instrument book contained images of devices that could be cut out and assembled, with directions for their use. Around the same time, Andreas Vesalius published, Seven books on the fabric of the human body, a ground-breaking atlas of anatomy for physicians and scholars. Sackler Museum exhibition organizers point out that, “Its title page makes a powerful statement in favor of observation and experiential learning [in the progression of knowledge]. At the center of the image, Vesalius, the teacher performs a dissection, holding back the flesh of a cadaver to give excited onlookers a better view of the internal organs.” They also note that the classical architectural backdrop, in which the scene occurs, visually reinforces the spirit of ancient Greco-Roman revivalism that so colored Renaissance thinking.

Albrecht Dürer, Melancholia I (1514). End Note #6.

Symbolism and allegory, two other features of classical thought, frequently found their way into Northern Renaissance prints. Cornelius Cort combined allegory and anatomical information to represent the five senses, thus conveying the importance of direct experience in our understanding of the natural world. His print series contains multiple symbolic references to objects and animals associated with the senses. A spider web evokes the sense of touch, rays of sun suggest sight. Accompanying texts then assign each sense to corresponding organs, both internal and external. Albrecht Durer, a master printer and intellectual giant in his time, sought to capture various emotions through the same clever use of signs and symbols appearing in his work. In his, Melancholia I (1514), the gloomy, angelic figure of Genius, head canted against her idle hand, is surrounded by the tools-of-the-trade of geometry and architect. Symbols too numerous to detail abound in this image, but the interface between the human psyche and natural (and metaphysical) forces, for Durer, identifies these two essential elements, as requisite in an evolving understanding of the human condition and intellectual pursuits.

Visual metaphors, too, are also artistically employed to convey national power and prestige. Jan Saenredam’s Map of Northern Netherlands (1589), even accounting for its marginal embellishments, is technically accurate. For historian, maps such as these, clearly revealing artistic influences in its production, yields a wealth of information about the land and coastline of 16th century Netherlands. Exhibition organizers note that, “The inclusion of a compass rose, as well as dividers and a distance/measurement key in the lower left corner, suggests the print’s use in navigation. However, the map also functions as an allegorical image of a nation on the rise. Nationalistic overtones are apparent in the crest with the lion, a symbol of the Netherlands. The ships in the harbor likely referred not only to the explorations being undertaken, but also to the nation’s [maritime] might; the vessel on the left is firing a cannon.”

Hans Baldung, called Grien, Dissection of the Scalp (l.) and Brain (r.), 1541. End Note #7.

One outgrowth of this period of scientific investigation and observation was to begin to move away from the ancient belief in the causal connection between human personality and the presence of absence of enigmatic humours coursing through the body. While not wholly abandoned for another two hundred years, the exhibition contains early examples of anatomical dissections of the brain, postulating relationships between human behavior and neurological structures. Hans Baldung created woodcut images of the human brain. Designed as instructional sheets, anatomical detailing is sparse and supporting descriptive material lacking. But, as an historical marker for the creation of prepared material for use in later instruction and training, the exhibition’s, Baldung: Study of the Mouth and Tongue and Study of the Head, from Walter Ryff’s carefully-named, On the most sublime, elevated and noble creature of all creature (1541), stands out as a cautious, yet brazen foray into the realm of objective observation—and a tenuous challenge of old-world, Biblical views of human sanctity.

Georg Glockendon the elder, after Hans Burgkmair the elder, People of Africa and India (detail),1511. End Note #8.

As if by extension, other investigators, working in conjunction with artists, began to explore the influence of physical environment on cultural characteristics. Continental exploration of Africa and the Americas was open far-flung doors previously unknown or little-understood, exotic cultures. In a print by Hans Burgkmair, a series of frieze-style images detail a trading journey from West Africa to India made by Tyrolean merchant Balthasar Springer in 1505 (People of Africa and India, 1511). Exhibition material points out that, “…notes and sketches in Springer’s journal provided the source material for [the] image, which ‘maps’ the people, plants and animals from foreign land forms. Before the 16th century, peoples, plants and animals of foreign lands were relegated to the margins of maps. Here, they are the primary subjects. The [image] offers impressions of family life, social hierarchy, and material culture, as well as information about plants and animals. These images might have been among the first representations of human beings in Africa and India that sixteenth-century Europeans saw.”

Jacques de Gheyn II, Great Lion, c. 1590. See End Note #9.

Observation of life on earth was not confined to humans and plant life. Many fascinating and dramatic images of the animal kingdom were rendered, as well. Probably drawn and or engraved for first-hand observation, Jacques de Gheyn’s Great Lion (c. 1590), was one of the most popular prints of its time. The natural posture of the creature, the eye for realistic detail (paws, skin folds) and the sense of power of the creature (long a symbol of power, the engraving bears the inscription, ‘fearless, but alert’), this image may owe its popularity to the perception by the viewer that one was standing before the animal. But, its most important contribution to the lexicon of images being produced during this critical period in nascent scientific observation was the apparent transition from the antediluvian notion of a superordinated representation of species, to the specific: this image is about one particular lion and its observable traits, not a class or species.

Jan Saenredam, Beached Whale near Beverwijk, 1602. End Note #10.

In the realm of the specific, an incident on the waterfront of Beverwijk, Netherlands, in 1602, provided residents there with the opportunity to observe a rare phenomenon in nature—the beaching of a full-sized Sperm whale. As curious members of the community are pictured gathering around the leviathan, in an engraving by Jan Saenredam, naturalists are also represented, as they can be seen gathering numeric data from the creature. Measurements of length and girth—even blowhole size—are recorded in an effort to understand this particular mystery of the deep. The artist, too, is pictured in the lower left corner of the image, recording both the excitement of the event and the work of investigators for later use in preparing the engraving. For ‘Pursuit of Knowledge’ exhibition organizers, the scene portrayed epitomizes the melding of scientific investigation and artistic collaboration at a defining moment in early modern history.

Surely to be counted as one of the geniuses of the Northern European, early Renaissance was Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528). He was a German painter, printmaker, engraver, mathematician, and theorist from Nuremberg. His prints established his reputation across Europe when he was still in his twenties, and he has been conventionally regarded as the greatest artist of the region ever since. His vast body of work includes altarpieces and religious works, numerous portraits and self-portraits, and copper engravings. His watercolors mark him as one of the first European landscape artists, while his ambitious woodcuts revolutionized the potential of that medium. In his lifetime, he was also known to produce a number of theoretical treatises, involving principles of mathematics, perspective and ideal proportions, which were published posthumously.

Albrecht Dürer, Rhinoceros, 1515. See End Note #11.

The Sackler Museum exhibition contains several important examples of Durer’s printmaking. As iconic example of a Dürer animal rendering (though not, as in the case of Saenredam’s Whale or de Gheyn’s Great Lion, for first hand observation), is Rhinoceros (1515). Consider a remarkable creature—defying even the most fantastical imaginings of Europeans of that time—Dürer produced a dramatic portrait of the animal. It was (and still is!) captivating, by reason of the artist’s au fait command of the woodcut medium and for the primal power evident in his subject. Claiming that it was a ‘faithful’ rendering, the image appeared time-and-again as collectable prints and in animal encyclopediae. Exhibition organizers point out that, “with the exaggerated tactility of its plated hide…it can be seen to embody the process of which it is a product: printing itself.

Albrecht Dürer and Johannes Stabius, after Conrad Heinfogel, Map of the Northern Celestial Hemisphere, 1515. End Note # 12.

As further evidence of his technical proclivity across a wide range of subjects are Durer’s celestial charts. On view are Durer’s (working with astronomers, Johannes Stabius and Conrad Heinfogel) Maps of the Northern and Southern Celestial Hemisphere (1515). Exhibition notes explain that, “Durer’s celestial charts are the first known printed maps of the northern and southern celestial hemispheres. Based on Ptolemy’s 2nd century catalogue of the stars, they document what, in the 16th century, was current knowledge of the skys. The artist presents a 3-dimensional concept—a celestial sphere- in 2-dimensional form by flattening it. Line of longitude radiate from the center.” Durer’s vivid animation of the colorful creatures inhabiting the twelve signs of the zodiac, overlaying the observable constellations, represents a melding of objective science and ancient belief-systems drawn from astrology that characterized the transition from superstition to science during the early Renaissance.

Hendrick Goltzius, Portrait of Nicolaus Petri van Deventer, 1595. End Note #13.

Emblematic of the exhibition’s motif—the mutually-enriching relationship between art and science during a period when the boundary between the two was not as sharply drawn as today—is dramatically embodied in a rendering by the little-known, Hendrick Goltzius. A portrait of the mathematician and astronomer Nicholaus Petri van Deventer, rendered during this epochal period, projects all the same regal bearing as portraits of kings and princes by other, better-known artists. And like other portraits, commissioned to extol the interests and influence of a monarch, this image was devised as a promotional device to promote the subject’s manuals on mathematics, accounting and the use of globes. Petri is pictures with globe and dividers, with other instruments, like a sextant and rulers on the table. Above his right shoulder is a polyhedron, symbol of proficiency in geometry; above the left, an armillary sphere, denoting knowledge in the field of astronomy. These tropes are intended to communicate to the sophisticated reader that Petri is a master in various disciplines and in the world around him. As noted in the exhibition text, “Despite the inscription at the top of the print (‘Man proposes and God disposes’), Goltzius presents [his client in a flattering light], as an expert in full control.”

The rich collection of over 200 prints and artifacts on exhibit at Harvard’s Arthur M. Sackler Museum is drawn from the university’s extensive collection. The exhibition reinforces the premise that there were close and mutually-beneficial links between artists and scientists, emphasizing that exchanges of influence could work both ways. Artists-as-skilled-technicians and scientists eager to shed the medieval label of extraneous dabblers found solace and respect in one another’s skills. The invention and expanded use of the printing press, paper production and broader dissemination of printed images and text created a ‘perfect storm’ in the late 16th century—the powers of observation and the desire to investigate any-and-all features of the natural world combined with the artist’s ability to give form and substance to those discoveries. This partnership gave rise to a period of prodigious learning known as the Northern European Renaissance.

By Richard Friswell, Managing Editor

The exhibition, Prints and the Pursuit of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe will be on display at Harvard’s Arthur M. Sackler Museum until December, 10, 2011 and then at the Mary and Leigh Block Museum of Art, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL from January 17th-April 8, 2012.

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 End Notes:

Image 1. Hendrick Goltzius, The Great Hercules, 1589, engraving sheet. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Gray Collection of Engravings Fund, G4613. Photo: Department of Digital Imaging and Visual Resources, Harvard Art Museums, © 2011 President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Arthur M. Sackler Museum, one of Harvard University Museums, Cambridge, MA

Image 2. Stradanus (Jan van der Straet), From Nova reperta (New inventions and discoveries of modern times), c. 1599-1603. Hans Collaert the younger, after Nostradanus, Title Page (detail). Sarah Campbell Blaffer Foundation, Houston, BF.1998.9.10.

Hans von Gersdorff and Hans Wechtlin the elder, Instruments for Use in Cranial Surgery, in Gersdorff, Field manual for the treatment of wounds, 1540. End Note #14.

Image 3. Heinrich Vogtherr the elder, Anatomy, or, a Faithful Reproduction of the Body of a Female, Strasbourg: Jacob Fröhlich, 1544. Woodcuts with hand-coloring and letterpress. Boston Medical Library in the Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine, ff QM33.A16. Photo: Boston Medical Library in the Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine. (left: viewing flap raised; right: flap lowered)

Image 4. Unknown woodcutter, Anatomy of the Bones of the Human Body (1493). Woodcut with hand- coloring. Photo: Staatliche Graphische Sammlung München.

Image 5. Andreas Vesalius and unknown woodcutter, Title Page, from Vesalius, De humani corporis fabrica libri septum (Seven books on the fabric of the human body), Basel: Johannes Oporinus, 1543. Woodcut and letterpress image. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Purchased with the SmithKline Beckman Corporation Fund, 1949, 1949-97-41a.

Image 6. Albrecht Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514. Engraving. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Gift of William Gray from the collection of Francis Calley Gray, G1098. Photo: Department of Digital Imaging and Visual Resources, Harvard Art Museums, © 2011 President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Image 7. Hans Baldung, called Grien, Dissection of the Scalp (left), Exposure of the Hemispheres of the Brain (right), from Walter Ryff, Des Aller furtrefflischsten, höchsten und adelichsten geschöpffs aller Creaturen […] (On the most sublime, elevated, and noble creature of all creatures), Strasbourg, 1541. Woodcuts and letterpress and hand coloring, sheets. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Purchased with the SmithKline Beckman Corporation Fund, 1982-40-1f-o.

Image 8. Georg Glockendon the elder, after Hans Burgkmair the elder, People of Africa and India (detail), Neuremberg, 1511. Woodcut and letterpress from five blocks on six sheets, frieze. Houghton Library, Harvard College Library, Harvard University. Purchased with the Susan A.E. Morse Fund, 1962, Typ 520.11.428 F.

Georg Brentel the younger, from Pamphlet describing the construction and function of a conical sundial, 1615. See End Note #15.

Image 9. Jacques de Gheyn II, Great Lion, c. 1590. Engraving. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Anonymous Fund for the Acquisition of Prints Older than 150 Years, 2009.46. Photo: Department of Digital Imaging and Visual Resources, Harvard Art Museums, © 2011 President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Image 10. Jan Saenredam, Beached Whale near Beverwijk, 1602. Engraving. New Bedford Whaling Museum, Kendall Collection, 2001.100.6017.

Image 11. Albrecht Dürer, Rhinoceros, 1515. Woodcut and letterpress. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Stephen Bullard Memorial Fund, by exchange, 68.247. Photo: Photograph © 2011 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Image 12. Albrecht Dürer and Johannes Stabius, after Conrad Heinfogel, Map of the Northern Celestial Hemisphere, 1515. Woodcut with handcoloring. Staatliche Graphische Sammlung München, Inv. 118930. Photo: Staatliche Graphische Sammlung München.

Image 13. Hendrick Goltzius, Portrait of Nicolaus Petri van Deventer, 1595. Engraving. Harvard University Museums/Fogg Museum, Gift of John S. Newberry, M6486. Photo: Department of Digital Imaging and Visual Resources, Harvard Art Museums, © 2011 President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Image 14. Hans von Gersdorff and Hans Wechtlin the elder, Instruments for Use in Cranial Surgery, in Gersdorff’s Field manual for the treatment of wounds, Strasbourg: Hans Schott, 1540. Book with woodcuts with hand-coloring. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Purchased with the SmithKline Beckman Corporation Fund, 1949-97-11. Photo: Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Image 15. Georg Brentel the younger, from Pamphlet describing the construction and function of a conical sundial, Lauingen: Jacob Winter, 1615. Pamphlet with engravings and woodcuts. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Anonymous Fund for the Acquisition of Prints Older than 150 Years, 2007.205. Photo: Department of Digital Imaging and Visual Resources, Harvard Art Museums, © 2011 President and Fellows of Harvard College.

Japanese portrayal of Commodore Matthew Perry’s gunship in Edo Harbor, 1853, block print, artist unknown

From the word orient, we take our meaning, ‘to establish a direction or a path based on the points of the compass’. Navigators over centuries faced east to trace the path of the rising sun to its apex for the noon sextant sighting—toward the Orient—the land of mystery somewhere over the horizon. That this archipelago of exotic lands lost in a vast sea, with its towering mountain ranges walling off enormous swaths of snow-choked plains, rain-drenched jungles, powerful emperors and marauding armies, rising and falling from power somewhere in the veiled mists of time, could elude Western eyes for so many centuries, was no accident. For more than a thousand years, with few exceptions and under very limited conditions, the empires of the East enacted a moratorium on European exploration and trade along their shores. artes fine arts magazine

Claude Monet, Camille in Japanese Costume (1876)

This self-imposed exclusion of Asian nation-states from any Western influence–a once-great family of nations that measured their scope-of-power by the greatest distance their invading forces could be logistically supported from their capitals boardering the Mediterranean, was redefined  during the Age of Exploration. Bold expeditionary sorties were reaching the farthest corners of the globe. With discovery came dreams of riches; and with increasing profitable trade routes coursing the seas between expanding European centers-of-commerce, the Indian sub-continent and coastal cities of China, there arose a growing curiosity about the potential for profit to be found amidst the many harbors of the Japanese coast, its secretive people and the elegant coastal city of Edo, its capital.

Kitagawa Utamaro, Courtesan with Servant Girl (c.1795)

American financial interests in the Pacific in the 19th century had long been overlooked. And so, in 1853, Commodore Matthew Perry, armed with a fleet of gunships and a letter of introduction from President Millard Fillmore in hand, dropped anchor in the harbor of present-day Tokyo. Japanese ports had been closed to Western vessels for more than two centuries, under the xenophobic rule of the Tokugawa government. Perry’s objective was ultimately not militaristic, but a show-of-force and the threat of future naval action was impressive enough to secure him a high-level meeting with those surrounding the emperor. He sought to open trade relations with the Japanese. While the American threat was overt and explicit, the opportunity contained in the message was clear: “The world is modernizing. Let’s climb on the commercial bandwagon together, before you’re left behind!” With the proposal on the table, Perry weighed anchor and left, stating that he would give the Japanese time to consider the proposal; but promising to return in a few months to consummate the arrangements.

Japan had been aware of the lucrative trade arrangements existing between certain Chinese ports and trading companies in Holland and England, particularly. They also understood that a policy of isolationism would not be in their long-range best interest. Internal political unrest was no small part of the dynamic behind the decision to concede to Commodore Perry’s demands. And so, with commercial trade agreements signed in 1855, the West was to be introduced to its first wave of Japanese artifacts arriving on their shores. Japanese traders quickly discovered that there was brisk overseas demand for their goods: porcelain, decorative bronzes, fabrics and lacquered goods. With the fall of the shōgunate in 1867, Japan quickly adopted an international spirit of outreach and took a pavilion at the Paris Universal Exposition, in the same year. There, Parisians saw their first formal presentation of the Japanese ‘arts’, launching a craze for all-things-Japanese, coined japonisme.

Henri Riviere, The Tower under Construction, As Seen from the Trocadero, from the book Thirty-Six Views of the Eiffel Tower (1902), color lithograph

It is one of the ironies of history that the first introduction to the art of Japanese print making would be as packing material for the porcelain table settings being shipped in wooded crates, decades before, elsewhere in Europe. They were viewed as exotica—artifacts from a far-off place worthy of attention—but in no way would they serve as a source of creative inspiration, given Western infatuation with the pre-eminent measure of good taste for that time, found in neo-classical styling. It took the French Expo of 1867 and the inclusion of works by a dwindling number of what had been many generations of Japanese block print makers (Hiroshige III, Kunisada II, etc. [students took the names of their masters, hence the generational appellation]), to rouse the interest and attention of the Parisian artistic community. One-hundred of these prints were sold after the exposition closed, spawning a keen interest in this style of work, called Ukiyo-e (Floating World); with the application of flat color planes, absence of perspective and appealing representations of Japanese women, lifestyle and landscapes found in these prints.

(left) Mary Cassatt, Woman Bathing, 1890–1891, color aquatint and drypoint; (right) Utagawa Hiroshige, Kinryuzan Temple in Asakusa, from the series, One Hundred Views of Famous Places in Edo (1856), color woodcut with ‘lacquer’ and embossing.

Within ten years of their introduction to the French public, Ukiyo-e prints were being handled by well-known galleries, actively acquired by collectors and artists, alike—Monet, Manet and Gauguin among them. Van Gogh claimed, “Whatever one says, even the most vulgar Japanese sheets colored in flat tones are, for the same reason, as admirable as Rubens and Veronese.” Their influence on the development of the Impressionist style can be seen in the work of many of the masterworks of the time, with Japanese dress, styling and representations of prints, themselves, finding their way into painting motifs. More importantly, japonisme affected French artists’ perception of their very subject matter, with use of color, perspective and atmospherics mimicking that found in Japanese block prints. A detailed consideration of the works of Manet, Degas, Whistler, Bonnard, Pissarro, Vuillard, Toulouse-Lautrec and Gauguin will reveal these influences. And, there are many fine books available on the topic.

Here, we offer one small example, in the print making of Mary Cassatt. Her, Woman Bathing (1890-91) is one of a series made in the classic Japanese style. Cassatt, a Philadelphian, “hated conventional art,” and in 1877, when Degas invited her to join the impressionists in their reaction to the overbearing academies d’arts, she joined forces with the outcasts. She had first seen Ukiyo-e woodcuts at the 1890, Ecole des Beuax-Arts, with her friend and fellow artist, Berte Morisot, she set out to create a series of prints in that style. The result is a masterful fusion of East and West, as women and children (her specialty, though never married) interact and engage in everyday behavior, in muted tones and flattened planes-of-color and form—in the best spirit of the late 18th century and early 19th century Japanese master print makers.

By Richard Friswell, Managing Editor

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(Above) Ferdinand Holder, Die Nacht (Night), Detail, 1889. Coll. Kunstmuseum, Bern

Artists have treated this emotionally-charged topic in many ways over the centuries, appropriating the symbols of life and death, in ways that both illustrate and expound on their relevance to us. Particularly in the modern era, the ‘Age of Anxiety’, the bridge between symbolism-as-motif in the visual arts and our first-hand experiences of alienation and vulnerability remain particularly germane. For purposes of comparison, the work of two artists, working more than one-hundred years apart will be compared and contrasted here; allowing for the thread of common themes to link the two, while observing how the symbols employed in each painting and the cultural milieu that produced each, differed widely.

Ferdinand Holder, Die Nacht (Night), 1889. Coll. Kunstmuseum, Bern

The first is Ferdinand Holder’s, Die Nacht (Night), 1890. A little-known Swiss artist in the U.S., his work is held by only one museum in this county (Art Institute of Chicago). Well-known in Western Europe in the early 20th century, he was praised as one of the greatest artists of the time. His work was compared to that of Cezanne and one critic summarized his significance by seeing in him the realization of, “our era’s deep yearning for greatness and immortality.” [1] His early work however, continued to be largely representational portraiture and landscapes, “painted after nature exactly as the artist saw it.” [2]

It was only after 1885, that his recently exhibited work caught the attention of a group of Genovese poets, who embraced the French Symbolist lyrics of Mallarme and Verlaine. Under their direction, Holder became more interested in abstract and philosophical themes, “…to make use of Naturalism to create the ideal.” [3] At that stage in his career, themes of the Eternal and the fragile relationship between man and the creative forces of the universe entered into a visual dialogue on his canvases. Following the success of the first showing of Night, in 1890, amid some controversy in Geneva, the painting and Holder’s reputation as a Spiritualist quickly spread to other cities in Germany and the Netherlands.

The metaphysical themes of Night, in which the eerily-draped, amorphous form of the phantom of death, shrouded in black and crouching over the naked body of a terrified man, brings the evocative power of symbolism home to the viewer. We find the man, who moments before, had been reclining amidst the ethereally illuminated figures of other sleeping figure, is now suddenly wrenched from the intimate scene of warm and sensually-rendered flesh, intimate contact between sleeping lovers and the mannerist posturing of figures, reflecting another, more classically-inspired time in historical painting. Here, an expression of fear and panic isolate the single figure (thought to be a portrayal of the artist, himself), as the harbinger of death—faceless and nearly formless—bears down on his body and soul, about to reap his harvest.

Another Symbolist painter of the period: Gustav Klimt, Danaē (1907). Private Collection, Vienna

This painting is a study in isolation and alienation, common themes among the intellectual forces of the late Victorian period, that were driving the discussion of man’s increasingly marginal role in an industrialized world. Created at a time when Holder was plagued by fears of his own death, following that of his sister, the painting must have served to fix and allay those anxieties. But, in accordance with the demands of Symbolism for the portrayal of the mystical, the full significance of the painting may be intended to defy clarification, with its mixture of the traditional and personal, the naturalistic and the abstracted. [4]

Yet, many elements of Western belief systems are represented in this piece: death’s visage as horrific and unexpected, leading to an uncertain and perhaps frightening final destination; the lone, suffering figure at odds with the uncertainty of his future in the world; the notion of being trapped or cornered by fate, where freedom and choice is suddenly limited by civilization around us and the marked indifference and non-participation of the other figures in the scene, represented in their ultimate state of naked vulnerability and private reverie. The representation of death and destruction in the lives of Western man is often personified in art (though only hinted at here), where our God and his symbolic correlates posses an alien, other-worldly quality that intrude as unwelcome visitors in our lives, when least expected. The adversarial symbol of death portrayed in Night is an aberrant and terrifying visitor, serving as a universal Christian symbol for our solo spiritual journey through a world, where temptation and its chilling consequences thrust us into an unremittingly tempestuous journey through the world around us.

Like the Romantics before them, the Symbolists opposed the values of rationalism and material progress that dominated (and continues to) western culture, exploring instead, the non-material realms of emotion, imagination and spirituality. Ultimately, Symbolists seek a deeper and more meaningful reality than that encountered in everyday life. They reject formal, stylized compositional structure in their work, favoring instead, the realm of the imagination and figurative ambiguity that reflect our mysterious and elusive connection to life and our surroundings.

Manuel Mendive, Shango y la Vida (Shango and Life), 2004. Courtesy, private collection

In contrast to the more Western, formalized Spiritualistic constructs found in Holder’s Night, is the recent work of Cuban artist, Manuel Mendive and his narrative painting, Shangó y la Vida (Shangó and Life), 2004. This painting, by one of Cuba’s most famous artists, is a blend of religious and spiritual motifs that define the very essence of the island nation. A cultural admixture of indigenous Cuban, Spanish-Catholic, African tribal folk and religious traditions—and even Asian influences— go to make up a rich ethnic stew, known by the rich, meaty hotchpotch known as Ajiacó.

Raised in a blue collar neighborhood outside Havana, Mendive began painting in the 1960s, incorporating the vivid mythical traditions of his African, Yoruba tribal ancestors, with the Santería religious practices of Cuba. Santería is a system of beliefs that merge the Yoruba religion (brought to the New World by slaves imported to the Caribbean to work the sugar plantations), with Roman Catholic and Native Indian traditions. The term Santería was originally a derisive term applied by the Spanish to mock followers’ seeming over-devotion to the saints and their perceived neglect of God. It was later applied to the religion by others. This thin ‘veil’ separating the relationship between Catholic saints and Cuban Orisha (a spirit or deity that reflects one of the manifestations of Olodumare (God) in the Yoruba spiritual or religious system), however, is somewhat undermined by the fact that the vast majority of santerós in Cuba today also consider themselves to be Catholics, have been baptized and often require initiates to be baptized. Many hold separate rituals to honor the saints and orisha respectively, even though the disguise of Catholicism is no longer needed.

Rich with spiritual symbolism: Manuel Mendive, Untitled (7), 2003. Private Collection

Mendive captures the vital forces of nature and his ancestral past in his painting. Shangó and Life, immortalizing the ‘Spirit of Thunder,’ the Orish that embodies power. Shangó, known for his passion and virility, is represented in the center of the painting by a large phallus that links the two halves of the composition and then turns into a Royal palm. This tree serves as a symbol of Sangó’s divinity and home. He is a womanizer, charming, generous and a fearless warrior. Of the many figures in the piece, each serves a particular function: there is ‘Osain,’ keeper of the jungle and plants, but has only one eye and hears out of just one ear; there are the ‘Ibeyi’ twins, sons of Shangó, who must remain tied together to avoid losing their power. They represent fortune and good luck and here, offer their fruits. Snails, roosters, goats, turtles, birds and fish nourish other figures. Here, in this single work, are found a pantheon of figures that represent the rich heritage related to Shangó. [5]

Spiritualism in a culture, like Cuba with its strong African and colonialist roots, having known so much pain and suffering has, by its very nature, evolved in a more forgiving and interactive light. The surface of the Mendive painting (even its edges have meaning!) comes to life with an array of figures that offer nurturance, flexibility and hints of cultural unification, while evolving to remain steadfastly and pragmatically relevant to its community of believers, over generations. In Shangó, the forces of nature unite in support of the people. By comparison to Holder’s Night, with the terrifying consequences of life’s end being played out alone, in a shadowy room of the indifferent and unaware, Mendive’s colorful and mystical canvas, Shangó and Life, with its interactive spiritual panoply, tells the story of engagement and connectedness to the population; serving as a bridge to understanding in a complex, harsh and unforgiving world.

By Richard Friswell, Managing Editor

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Citations:

[1.2.3] Museum Studies, Vol. 12, No.2, Art Institute of Chicago: ‘Ferdinand Holder, A Unique Note in the Birch Bartlett Collection’ (1986), pp. 166-187.

[4] Marilyn Stokstad, Art History, Vol. 2, Prentice Hall (2005), pp. 998-9.

[5] Gail Gelburd, ‘Ajiaco, Stirrings of the Cuban Soul’, University Press of New England (2009), prepared in conjunction with the Lyman Allyn Museum Exhibition, New London, CT